Dancing to the Sound of Death
by Irbis
Summary: Irbis is Creed's new housekeeper. As Creed allows her to take off on a short personal trip, he couldn't be further from imagining all the trouble she'd get herself into, as she manages to stumble over Friends of Humanity, X-Men (XSE) and mercenary teams. Last Chapter - Final examination: how do you manage to keep warm during a blizzard when there's no electricity?
1. Mutie-Lovers

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **1\. Mutie-Lovers**

The early morning was getting rather cool, with the wind dragging progressively darker clouds across the sky. Frank Alcott put on a leather jacket over his light shirt.

"They was talkin' 'bout it bein' a sunny day on the radio just now. 'Stead, it gets like this!"

Leaning on a sheriff car, Frank looked up at the sky and shook his greying head lightly. The younger man at his side, slightly shorter and just as fit looking, agreed with a distracted nod.

"Weather changes fast, this time o' the year. From warm an' sunny ta cold and rainy in a blink o' the eye. There's no need o' no weather guy predictin' what can't be predicted."

"Yeah, jus' don't ya get talkin' o' no rain, Mick." Frank stood up and stretched his still imposing figure. "It ain't gonna help no one if it starts rainin'."

Frank went over to the other side of the road, where an old battered car lay. He peeked inside and grinned. A young man slept peacefully on the back seat, his purple hair dishevelled. Frank opened the driver's door very carefully and then banged it close. He almost laughed when the young man jumped up, his eyes wide from the scare showing irises eerily red on a black background. He banged his head on the car ceiling and cursed loudly.

"Watch that tongue o' yours, boy." Frank was still grinning good-naturedly, and the young man eased up. "Shouldn't ya be studyin', son? I hear ya got a great deal o' school books ta read."

"Just a few." He rubbed his eyes carefully and moved to the door. "It's early in the school year, Pa. There'll be plenty o' time."

Frank looked at Mick on the other side of the road and said thoughtfully.

"Law school is hard, boy. But it's gonna be mighty useful ta everyone. Ya don't wanna ruin yer chances o' climbin' out o' somethin' like this... Small beans. That's what we're playin' fer, here: small beans. Ya play yer hand right, and ya'll be helpin' folks big time. Ya just have ta hang on ta them books."

"Yeah, yeah; I know. It's just I can't read anything with these contact lenses on."

As if to prove his point, he restarted rubbing his eyes lightly. Frank looked at him slightly concerned.

"Well then, why don't ya take 'em off while we're waitin' and get..." a sudden shrill whistle interrupted him. From the other side of the road, Mick signalled that a car was approaching. Frank was immediately on the move.

When the white mini-van came to an obedient halt behind the sheriff's car, the purple haired youth was nowhere to be seen. Mick was entering the mini-van's license plate on a small laptop as Frank approached the vehicle.

"'Morning, ma'am."

With an expert eye, he noticed that the Hispanic woman was very young and that she unfastened her seat belt as if she was going to get out of the car, but checked herself with a smooth hesitation. She ended up opening the window only slightly, and then opened it a bit more to make conversation easier.

"Good morning, Mister officer. Is somesing wr... ah... Quer dizer, is somesing I can help?"

Frank almost frowned. The woman wasn't American, but she didn't have the typical Hispanic accent... No, the accent was actually pretty regular, but she certainly wasn't a fluent English speaker. Other than that, she was nervous, although trying to act coolly; but, most importantly, she had been taught to deal with traffic officers' by the book. Definitely suspicious.

"May I see your documents, please?"

"Ah, yes, of course." She started by further opening the window then stopped with a guilty start and fumbled in her bag for an ordinary dark wallet.

Frank looked at the driver's license and then back at the nervously smiling woman. She looked younger than the twenty-two years old her documents claimed.

"Well, Miss Maria Irbis... I see ya're from Wausau. Got some family there myself... Near the University. Ya been livin' there fer long?"

She smiled openly, exuding honesty.

"No, I live in Wausau at... Bem, since de beginning off..." The woman suddenly blushed and stuttered a little before finishing with an embarrassed "dis summer".

Despite being suspicious, Frank smiled reassuringly and asked whether she was enjoying her stay. She only nodded, with a guilty smile.

"Unfortunately, ma'am, we been havin' some problems with car thieves 'round these parts and one o' the stolen cars we lookin' fer happens ta be a white mini-van... Just like this one." She blinked, apparently unsure of how to react. "I'll have ta ask ya to wait a few minutes as we cross yer document's information with the police database. If ya don't mind, that is..."

Mick was already near the car and even before she could have said anything, Frank gave him her documents. Mick smiled at her and walked back to the laptop. Frank excused himself and followed suit.

"'Morning, ma'am." The woman nearly jumped out of her skin, but the young man held nothing but the most soothing smile.

"Ah... Good morning."

He noticed she was trying not to stare at his purple hair and red eyes.

"Name's Jack. Jack Muddley." He paused, but she only stuttered and didn't give her own name. "Don't ya worry 'bout the sheriff. He's stopped dozens o' cars so far and it never took more than five ta ten minutes. Ya ain't runnin' late, are ya?"

"Oh, no. I... I've got time."

"Glad ta hear that. Most car accidents happen when ya're speeding 'cause ya're runnin' late."

She smiled, relaxing with the youth's obvious ease, and agreed wholeheartedly. He then asked her if she was going somewhere far.

"Yes, you can say dat."

"Lucky you. I'm stuck here; darned car over there keeps breaking down..." He looked at the beaten car with a sigh. "'S a pity I ain't got no money ta fix it."

"I hope ya won't mind me askin'," he suddenly said turning back to Irbis with a cute coy smile, "...but ya wouldn't happen ta be a mutant yerself, would ya?"

"Mutant, eu?" Irbis chuckled. "No, no. I'm not mutant."

"Ain't ya got nothin' ta do 'cept botherin' the lady?" Irbis jumped in her seat, failing to notice the youth was neither surprised nor upset at the sheriff's rough tone. "Everything's okay, ma'am?"

"Yes... Thank you, but de boy is OK. He was very sympathic."

Frank paused imperceptibly before commenting in a worried tone.

"Glad ta hear that, ma'am. Most people won't put up with no mutant, no matter how nice he may be." He went back to his normal voice. "Everything seems ta be in order. Ya're free ta go, now."

"Thank you, Mister officer."

"Lemme just warn ya there's a detour a lil' up the road, 'cause o' some road work. Ya go this way, and ya're on the lookout fer the first turning t'yer right. There'll be an arrow pointing ta the turnin', but ya don't even need ta see it. First turning t'yer right. Ya go up to a gas station and they'll tell ya the fastest way ta get to wherever ya goin'."

The woman smiled and thanked him. As she started the car, the purple haired youth waved good-bye and she waved back.

As the car disappeared, Mick joined Frank and told him that everything was in place. The young man was taking off the contact lenses.

"Hey, Junior. Great show back there. Ya sure had the chick goin'!"

The youth smiled and continued fighting off the red lenses, but Frank was snorting with disgust.

"Good show! Good show'd be seein' the woman wantin' 'im ta disappear. Darned mutie-lovers... They're worse than the mutants 'emselves. Mutants ain't human ta start with; these freaks turn their backs on humanity o' their own free will."

* * *

The station wasn't as close as she had thought and only after five minutes driving did she glimpse a lonely building up ahead. She thought about the mutant boy briefly, feeling pleased. She had been able to suppress her years of 'training', back home, to fall into informative chit-chat without second thought. Today, she had had a dismally poor and almost anti-social chit-chat, but had managed not to reveal anything about herself, nor asked anything about the boy or the officer's family. Creed might not have been happy at her distractions, getting ready to get off the car, opening the window too much. But, for a first time, she told herself, she had behaved just fine.

Irbis was feeling very confident when she stopped the car. The building was old but looked solid enough. An old man was sitting on a wooden chair near the gas pumps, which were old and looked out of order. He got up when Irbis got off the car and spit to the floor.

"Lookin' fer a map, are ya?" His voice was hard and filled with scorn. Irbis hesitated for a second, before nodding affirmatively. "Follow me. I got'em in the shop."

Irbis hesitated and remained near her van. The man entered the building and asked where she was heading to. The room was pitch black and Irbis got a sudden wish of getting in the car and speeding away. The old man's face appeared at the entrance.

"I ain't heard where ya was headin'." His eyes were hard and she found herself thinking about Creed, when he was seething with rage. "I got'em maps in here. Ya gonna have ta come in an' see fer yerself which way ya wanna go."

 _You're being stupid._ She told herself. _It's just an old man..._ But her instincts were yelling at her to take off. _Remember when you were kidnapped in Portugal and then at the Library. Remember those men in the woods. Remember what Mr Creed has told you again and again: you can't defend yourself, so take precautions to the limit of common sense. Be careful!_

The man was getting annoyed, restless. She was very close to the open door of the van, the car keys in her hand. The man smiled. An evil smile that reminded her of a warm night in Portland. Almost without meaning it, she turned around and opened her eyes in helpless disbelief as a rough looking man punched her in the face.

The last thought to cross her mind was of how Mr Creed was going to have good reasons to be mad at her.


	2. The X-Rescue

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **2\. The X-Rescue**

She had been sitting on the hotel bed, waiting for Mister Creed, and had been very relieved that he was in a good mood. But he had also noticed there was something going on. He had closed the door and then leaned a shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms while looking at her.

"I liked to have your permission to one thing," she had said.

He hadn't moved a muscle and she had felt more confident. "My job is always first: have certain dat you have everything you want and de house is perfect. And I, please, ask your permission to come to New York again in October to buy a guitar."

He'd frowned. "A guitar."

Nodding, she gave him the details: she had presented herself as Antonieta, no last name, and ordered a traditional Portuguese guitar. She had left no address, which was why she would have to come back in person to collect it.

She recalled the tension on his facial muscles, his golden eyes shining annoyedly at her as she held them. Such beautiful eyes the man had. She recalled the old Portuguese saying, "blue eyes in a Portuguese is the sign of a bad piece". Well then, "gold eyes in a person is the sign of a bad piece" too, she decided. But they were beautiful.

"Please, Mister Creed." She ended up pleading, though she wasn't sure he'd take her tone as pleading. "If you don't give me permission, I don't come. But I really, really want de guitar… If you want, I start practice fight again, in change off de permission. Please?"

His eyes had remained on her, burning through and through. But she had kept her word and, even despite her worries, it had been very easy to live with the man. As a matter of fact, it had been far more difficult when she was alone. When that happened, the days seemed to unwind endlessly and aimlessly. She made sure everything in the house was in perfect conditions and that the best food and drink was ready to receive the master of the house at any day and hour; she would even wander about the house searching for any little thing that could be improved. But she was too fast, and the house kept taking up less and less of her time. So she avenged her loneliness at the piano, playing every piece she knew until she could play it perfectly even if she were in the middle of a conversation while sleep-walking.

What else could she do? She had never returned to the Library, just as she had promised, where she had spent all her free time fighting with books and generally failing to gather all the information she wanted. On the other hand, the man enjoyed eating and drinking, so it was an excuse for acting: she started collecting recipes online and trying them out for herself, judging from his reaction to her previous cooking whether he'd like the new taste. He liked organic produce; so she set up a chicken coop in the middle of the backyard woods, far from the house so that no scent could upset him. The man had the nose of a hound and liked soberly spiced food, so she enlarged her herbal garden. The man wanted her to be capable of defending herself, so she practiced with the gun and the knife and frustrated her best efforts on the punching bag in the basement. But the day still had too much time, so she went online to choose new songs to expand her repertoire and sat down to studying them relentlessly.

And all this time she waited for October, when the guitar would arrive and she, pretending to be Antonieta, would go down to fetch it. Creed had showed up a few days before the deadline and she had presented him with a home-bred chicken cooked in its own blood. She had been so happy to have him in the house it had actually surprised her, and she had been very careful about toning down that stupid smile that insisted on creeping up onto her face. He hadn't stayed for long though, and she still hoped the disappointment hadn't showed too much. But before he had left, he had sat her down and drilled her through what to do and not to do should a police officer signal her to stop. Every word she should say in whatever situation, every movement.

She re-lived the feeling of achievement when she had realised she had been up to his expectations... No. The grunt he'd thrown sideways – she remembered it so clearly – the grunt had claimed she had acted above his expectations. The pride washed over her alongside the memory of the new plate license and set of car documents he'd given her to match her Isabel Martins identity, the one she was supposed to use outside Wausau.

"Don't mess this up, girl."

The golden eyes faded in the darkness of her mind and Irbis frowned, trying to pull them back. The air was dry and dusty, a slight scent of fuel and oil erupting from somewhere. She blinked in the dark, finally seeing past her memories.

"Are you O.K.?" Irbis looked towards the whisper and distinguished the large shape of a woman. She nodded affirmatively. "I was worried you might have been hurt. They only pointed a gun at me, you know."

A couple of laughs in the distance silenced the woman. Irbis got up slowly, using only her abdominal muscles after noticing that her hands were tied up behind her back. Once she was sitting up, she felt truly thankful that Creed had made her workout seriously. She wiggled her way to the woman and the wall she was leaning on.

"My name's Margaret Childs. You?" Irbis hesitated a moment and then presented herself as 'Mary'. "D'you know why we're here, Mary?"

Irbis looked carefully at the woman. She was big in all the senses of the word, although she wasn't fat. Irbis guessed she might be in her forties or fifties and that she was probably the no-nonsense type.

"'Cause we're decent people, that's why." She whispered angrily when Irbis didn't answer back. "These bastards, here, they're Friends of Humanity. I've been listening to them gloating over their work... Yelling at that old man 'cause he scares away their victims. I knew something was up when I lay my eyes on'im, you know. Nearly drove past this bastard place! But one of them shot my car and I crashed 'gainst a tree. Got a cut on my brow that bled for..."

Margaret continued talking, and Irbis was careful to nod sympathetically. She had read about these Friends of Humanity before, when she was surfing the Net for information on mutants, but she had been under the impression it was a political party. They had even come up with a presidential candidate that had been killed by an unidentified mutant. She remembered it well because the candidate, funnily enough, was named Creed. Grey-something Creed. But why was a political party kidnapping people?

Margaret kept talking. Her voice claimed confidence and indignation, but, to Irbis, the way she went on and on was symptomatic of nervousness, if not even fear. And Irbis was afraid, too. Afraid of how Creed might react when he found she was once more in need of rescue. He would certainly forbid her of ever leaving on her own, again. "Ya're a walkin' get me sign," Creed had told her once. She hated admitting that his words were starting to sound true even to her... Oh, why hadn't the man tagged along? She hadn't had the nerve to suggest it, but she had hoped he wouldn't trust her on such a long journey all by herself.

On the other hand, if she could get away... She tried the ropes securing her wrists; they were solid and hurting her. Nevertheless, her feet weren't bound. Of course, getting up and running away with her hands tied behind her back wasn't much of a plan.

"It's people like these that make the world a harder place to live in," Margaret still went on, almost oblivious to Irbis, "they sow hate all around them and..."

"I'm sorry, Margaret..." The woman suddenly realized she had been monopolizing the conversation and apologized with an anxious sigh. "No, is OK; but can you please help me? You think you can undo de... de ropes in my hands? I do de same to you."

Margaret was unsure for a moment, but with a thundering "why the hell not", she put herself in position, back to back with Isabel, and started struggling with the ropes. It wasn't easy, though, and both women even laughed a little at the folly of believing in films where such stunts are quickly followed by success. When Margaret's fingers began to feel raw from the effort, it was Irbis's turn to try her luck.

Soon, though, they heard a car. Both froze. The sound had been very faint, but there was no mistaking it.

"Another one." Margaret whispered through gritted teeth. "Damn'em all to Hell."

Irbis quickly moved back to a lying position, as close to the one in which she had awaken as she could. Margaret followed her cue and once more rested against the wall. Any time, now, they both knew, a new victim would be thrown in with them.

The victim, however, must have been trying to put up a fight, since the women heard some yelled orders they couldn't quite comprehend. Then there were gunshots and an explosion. Every muscle in Irbis contracted with expectation. What was going on?

With a loud bang and a flash, the door was blown down, and a tall black man stood threateningly in the doorway. The weak sun light behind him didn't let the women take a good look at his face, even when he walked over to them. Irbis found herself thinking about Creed immediately.

"Don't be afraid. You'll be free in a moment." His voice was calm but cold. "You are safe, now."

He started undoing Margaret's bounds, and Irbis could see the woman trembling as she asked him who he was.

"Bishop," he said as he finished his work on the woman and turned to Irbis, "working with the XSE. The county authorities have been warned and should arrive soon, but your testimony will still be needed to help put these people in prison."

Both Irbis and Margaret got up and stiffly followed the man out. The morning sun was almost completely up in the sky, bright amidst some scattered clouds, as the man asked if there was someone they needed to contact.

"My husband," Margaret got herself beside the black man, "he must be worried sick!"

Irbis stopped at the doorway. There was a convertible in the middle of the road and five men tied up and sitting down near the old empty gas pumps. A tall woman with very short red hair was talking to a smiling young blond, who seemed to be guarding the prisoners. She was soaring in the air; then, she rose higher still in the middle of the conversation and, with a wave of the hand, took off in a low flight. Irbis blinked and looked closer at the bound men, but didn't see the purple haired boy. She once more wondered if he really was a mutant or a normal person in disguise.

"Is something the matter?"

The black man, Bishop, he had called himself, was coming back to the house while Margaret went over to the blond young man. Irbis stood quietly, studying that dark skin scarred by a huge black M. He once more reminded her of Creed: there weren't any signs of sympathy or concern in his eyes, only a cold detachment that must surely be necessary to a soldier in some kind of war.

"Thank you, Mister... Bishop, right?" He nodded imperceptibly and she continued. "I... did you found de cars?"

"Not yet." His eyes glittered and Irbis thought his expression softened somewhat. "My colleague is currently searching the area. If your car is in the vicinity, it'll be found soon enough."

He was about to go on when he noticed Irbis's expression and stopped, frowning.

"Is something else the matter?"

She swallowed under his harsh gaze, but it wasn't much different from Creed's - deeply rooted suspicion, that was all.

"I have to be honest, Mister Bishop. I can't stay. I..." She braved his cold glare and picked up her best lying techniques. "I will be in trouble because... please understand. I don't have problems wid mutants but... many people have problems and I can't... I can't have problems. Please!"

The man didn't flinch a muscle as she spurted her little speech, yet his eyes seemed to be trying to see through her. After a minute, though, his frown softened up slightly.

"My colleague has just reported the presence of a large truck a couple of hundred feet away holding a couple cars." Irbis relaxed somewhat. "Can you describe your vehicle?"

"Yes. A Chevrolet Venture LS white."

The man frowned once more while Irbis spoke, and as soon as she finished saying she hadn't yet memorized the license plate, he nodded and informed her there was indeed a vehicle matching her description.

"You'll be free to go as soon as you wish, but take this." She accepted the calling card he gave her. "Should you change your mind about testifying or have any more 'mutant problems' give us a call."

"Thank you very, very..."

She interrupted herself when a terrifying thought crossed her mind: her bag had the documents for her Irbis identity, including the address for Creed's Wausau home! What if these XSE people... They were something like a police squad against criminal mutants. And Creed was a criminal mutant! She couldn't let them get any information about Creed, no matter what.

"Ah... I..." The man lifted a suspicious eyebrow. "My bag! I need my bag."

Without a second thought, she turned her back on him and ran back into the old house. As she did so a laugh rang clearly in the sky accompanied by the words "scaring the ladies". She felt herself blush in embarrassment but didn't stop. She had to find her bag.

Irbis paused fleetingly at the entrance so her eyes could adjust to the darkness. The door that led to the small warehouse where the two women had been bound was partially hidden next to some shelves. This room had surely been used as some sort of store once, probably when the gas pumps had still been working; now, it stored a great array of mechanical and metalworker tools. Where could her bag be?

She went to the old counter and started rummaging through the shelves it had on the inside.

"May I help ya, miss?"

Irbis froze and peeked over the counter. The young blond was entering the room with a warm smile.

"Uh... My bag. I need... My bag."

The young man laughed cheerfully and commented on the importance of a lady's bag. Irbis felt her face becoming warm, but told herself that no blush could be seen amidst the darkness of the room.

"My colleague is just starting questioning the... Uh, men who captured yah." He leaned on the counter, smiling reassuringly. "Ah'm sure we'll soon find where yer bag is. Were there any valuables in it, miss... ?"

Irbis shook her head and mentioned her documents. She couldn't leave, driving, without them. He nodded, a bit more serious now.

"Yah can call me Sam, miss..." Irbis finally gave in and revealed her name as 'Mary'. "I'm not sure if my partner told yah, but the county officers're gonna need yer testimony..."

Irbis jumped in fear, and nearly bumped into the young blond's head when she got up hurriedly. Stuttering mildly, she again explained that she was sorry but she couldn't have problems...

"Yes, of course." He once more smiled reassuringly, but she caught the small sigh of disappointment. "First of all, don't call me Mr Sam. It's just Sam, OK? Now, if yah can't testify... then yah can't. We understand."

"I'm sorry." Irbis said meekly. "Is dat..."

"No, it's OK; Ah understand. We all do. Now..." Sam looked around him. "This'll take much too long, and Ah don't want ya to get into more trouble. Why don't we go outside and Ah'll ask my colleague if she can find that bag o' yers, huh?"

Sam winked at her and gently led her back outside. Margaret was calmly waiting, sitting in the red convertible, and the short red-haired woman was talking to the black man. When they got closer, Irbis was careful to let herself fall a little behind, as if hiding in the blond youth's shadow. When Sam asked his two colleagues if they had had any luck, Irbis felt like the proverbial spy fly.

"From what I could see in their minds," the woman replied with a terse face, "the people they caught were forced to give them their credit and ATM cards, then they were beaten, threatened and released; but someone who tried to fight back might be killed instead."

There was disgust and anger mixed in her voice when she revealed that she had caught images of at least four kills in the men's memories.

"But the worst is that we don't have the whole gang here. At least two men and a teenager who were part in this left a couple hours ago to meet their contacts."

"They'll be found, Rachel, don't worry. Once their names and physical descriptions are released, they'll be found and brought to justice."

The black man shook his head, and grunted against the youth's faith in justice. The blond didn't like it, and insisted the authorities would do everything in their power to catch them; if for nothing else, because this was about attacks to normal humans instead of mutants.

"Besides," he continued, "the Friends of Humanity don't have the same power they used to have, before Creed's death."

Maybe. But Irbis still agreed with the big man's reasoning: the group would protect them, make them disappear.

"But they won't be on time, Sam," the woman added, "those two men took with them detailed information about all of their victims. Even if they are caught, they'll have had time to distribute that information. Not only will people be afraid of coming forth to testify, some of them may even become victims of blackmail, forced to do things to keep the Friends of Humanity from harassing their families or loved ones, or simply out of fear of being publicly labelled as 'mutie lovers'."

Irbis felt fear grip her heart. The X-Men might not get any information on her and Creed, but this other party had. And they were probably a bit less friendly and helpful than the X-Men. She closed her eyes in despair and decided she had heard enough. Time was of the essence. She cleared her throat and, all of a sudden, she became visible.

"I'm very sorry to interrupt," she decided to act as if she hadn't heard their conversation as she continued, "but Mr... Uh, quer dizer, Sam say you can find my bag?"

Sam apologised and asked the red-haired woman if she could check with the prisoners for the bags. Irbis noticed a slight grimace of annoyance thrown at her. She wondered if the other woman would testify... would the men be released if no one testified? If no one presented a claim against them? No, she told herself. If they could connect them to a killing, then there was no need for witnesses. She, on the other hand, had to contact Creed and explain to him the morning events as soon as possible. She hoped he wasn't in the middle of a job...

Fortunately, her bag, as well as Margaret's, was swiftly found. Ten minutes hadn't gone by after Sam's offer, and she had already buckled up her seatbelt, her bag on the seat next to the driver's, and was ready to take off.

"Have a safe trip," Sam told her with a warm smile, "and don't speed. Ya'll only have more problems if ya end up in a hospital bed."

Irbis chuckled and dismissed his worries. Then she started down the road at an advised speed. Some minutes later, though, tempted by an empty well-kept road, she put the speed pedal down to the board. Irbis kept her eyes open and easily spotted a nice path out of the road and into the tree cover.

When the car came to a full stop, Irbis was definitely out of sight for any passing by car. A bit nervously, she got out and searched for the button hidden in a nook under the back seat and pushed it while, at the same time, lifting the seat. Hidden in the sound-proof lead box were some guns and ammunition, as well as her Isabel Martins documents and the new license plate. Quickly, she swapped plates and documents and got ready to move on.

But she couldn't. Not just yet. She sat behind the wheel and reached for the mobile phone in her bag. She wondered how Creed would react to the news...

* * *

"What?!" Creed could not believe his ears. Friends of Humanity? X-Men? "WHAT?! Where the hell are ya?"

He was tying her up in Wausau and shredding her to little pieces if she ever as much as dreamed of going anywhere again.

"What'ya mean ya're not sure? What's the closest town?"

Caught by Friends of Humanity in her Irbis persona. Just how stupid could the blasted girl be? Why didn't she just up and tell them her whole story while she was at it!

"Ya was on the WI-34 until Knowlton? OK, then here's what ya gonna do: ya go back ta the WI-34 an' then ya heads straight ta Madison, got it? Ya don't stop fer nothin'! Get yerself ta Madison an' straight ta the airport. I'll meet ya there. Just sit tight at a café or whatever close ta the airport. I'll give ya a call as soon as I get there. Got it? Ya sure ya got everythin' straight? An' don't try ta mess this up any more than it already is, girl."


	3. Walking 'get-me' Signs

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **3\. Walking 'get-me' Signs**

Creed reached the diner and spotted Irbis even before entering the place. She seemed uncannily calm, sitting upright on the chair and looking steadily at the mobile in her hands. The moment she spotted him entering though, an evident wave of relief washed over her. Waiting for him on the table was a beer, which he took as an attempt to soothe his anger.

"Shut yer yap!" And Irbis immediately bit down the obvious apologies before a single sound could be pronounced. "How could ya be so stupid as ta get caught by Friends of Humanity, of all the anti-mutant groups out there! They's practically out o'business, these days."

The blond took a long sip of beer, which was conveniently icy, allowing the woman enough time to set up a defense:

"I had to stop to change de car plates, and I couldn't do it in Wausau, right? De police knows me because off dat kidnap… What if de police stop me and I have to show my false documents to someone dat knows me?"

Creed growled and swore she was never, ever leaving Wausau again. Then he demanded to hear the whole story in detail. He calmed some as the events progressed, especially since Irbis was able to describe people involved and even remember names. Still, the whole thing sounded fishy.

"Hmm… If those ass-holes are collectin' data on mutie-lover folks, they can't be doin' it only here in Wisconsin. They gotta have a bigger plan than that." He finished his beer, looking intently at Irbis. "I'll have ta snoop around some ta see what's the word out there on this. As fer you..."

He growled slightly, annoyed, then breathed out in defeat. "It's probably fer the best if the house's empty till this mess is all fixed. If any o' those dick-heads thought of checkin' out on ya ta use ya fer whatever, ya'd be as good as toast. The house bein' empty... the only thing they can do is try t'break in, which won't do 'em any good anyhow."

"So I go to Newark..." She left the sentence dangling, not wanting to risk a wrong guess or interpretation.

"And stay there till I says so. Ya'd been behavin' so well this last month, ya had t'go and muddle it all up!"

"I know and I..."

"Sav'it fer someone who cares!"

Creed hadn't got up yet when the sound of breaking glass and screaming filled the place. He felt his back burst into fiery pain and tumbled forward, breathless. In front of him, Irbis's eyes fluttered close, but the table couldn't handle his weight and toppled to the right, dragging him down, until the girl's trainers were in front of his eyes. Screeching people started running for it, but Irbis seemed to be frozen. He figured she'd be looking straight at his attackers, who had stopped shooting. There were two possible reasons: either they had just lost eye contact and didn't want to waste ammo, or they didn't want too many civilian casualties. Either way, there was only one thing to do. Roaring away the pain, he got up and closed a vice-like hand around Irbis's wrist.

Creed's mind and body were now working at break-neck speed: his nose told him there were a few civilian casualties, already, bleeding around; but more importantly, it told him the two men had their scents conveniently toned down, so much so he wouldn't have been able to know where they were standing if he hadn't looked around. His eyes also ascertained what his ears had already told him – the men were avoiding shooting, searching for a good target. Avoiding casualties or saving up on the ammo? His mind quipped in it was probably the last, because his back was still burning and his healing factor didn't feel right. Whatever the men had used, it wasn't normal bullets. It stood to logic that for as long as they didn't have a good target they would avoid shooting.

Roaring, Irbis safely tucked under his arm like a slightly over-grown rolled up mat, Creed dashed for the door. The two soldiers restarted shooting as soon as they saw him advancing through the panicked chickens, but ended up getting out of his way as he went through the door. One of the men wasn't fast enough, though, and Creed's claws closed in on his hand. In less than a second, he pulled the man towards him and, taking advantage of his loss of balance, crushed his wind-pipe.

But there was no time to lose. The dead soldier's colleague restarted shooting at Creed's back, and he quickly crossed the road into the airport's car park. However, his healing factor had once more slowed down and he felt his strength faltering.

"Where's yer car?" He asked as he dropped Irbis on the ground, behind a row of cars. They wouldn't remain alone for long.

"Ali, para aquele lado!" And she pointed breathlessly to the white mini-van some thirty yards on.

They sprinted towards the car, the car keys already in Irbis's hand. There were more people running about, though; some already speeding off in their cars. The police should be on the spot anytime, too. Those mercenaries had to have known they'd only have a few moments to play their hand, which meant the apparent lack of reinforcements was part of the plan. Irbis unlocked the door and Creed pushed her to the side.

"Move it! I'm driv…"

He fell hard, his body closing the driver's door. His legs felt as if they had been dipped in acid, they burnt so badly. The pain was so intense he didn't even hear the shooting, just felt the fire extending to his back as more of the 'special' bullets hit him. Creed fought to control his breath and his thoughts. They had known the location of the mini-van all along. They had waited for him to go for it... he had noticed the other two men had had their scents disguised... Stupid amateur mistake! But it made no nevermind, now. He needed time for his healing factor to react, and if he played dead for long enough, the soldiers might stop shooting him and give his body the time it needed.

"Don't move, girl!" They were already on the spot. That was good. He tried to picture their locations: two guys to his left, another two approachin from the right, where Irbis was frozen still. The guys to his left were the ones that kept shooting him, about a couple of bullets every minute. "That's it… no sudden moves... nice and easy."

"We ain't got much time" a voice was saying to his left, but the guy on the right continued talking to Irbis.

"Marta." Her frightened voice trembled forth, "Marta dos Santos Pereira."

"Who are you? And why are you with this wanted mutant?"

If Creed had had enough breath in him for it, he'd have laughed. He could almost see the girl's stupid 'you've lost me' expression.

"Mut… No, he's not a mutant; he's … He… I'm… I am his house keeper." A slightly ragged breathing threatened tears. "He said… he said he give me documents to stay here if I... if I'm his house keeper. But he's not... he's not mutant..."

"You mean to tell me you don't know who you're working for?"

"He… he... I just want to work and he..." And then in sudden fear. "I'm not mutant. I'm not, I promise!"

"Geez, there's all sorts of stupid aliens, these days!" Someone grunted from behind him.

"Let'er go, man. She ain't part o' the package. Hey, ya sure ya ain't no mutant?"

"no, no mutant" She whimpered breathlessly.

"Get outta here, girl," a voice said, but the other man insisted.

"Look, if ya _are_ a mutant, there's folks who can help ya. It don't matter if ya're an alien or not, ya understand? There's a school over in New York..."

"Hey, what the hell ya doin'? You're the mutants' self-appointed guardian angel, now?" The one speaking now was to his left, but only temporarily, as he just stepped over Creed's collapsed bulk and pushed the other merc aside. They had just forgotten to keep shooting him.

"Shut up, you! My parents would still be alive today if someone had just told them that guy Xavier could'ave helped them."

Creed focused on his situation. They had stopped shooting him, true; but his healing factor was working slowly. The last guy to the left reminded his colleagues they had exactly two minutes to finish extracting the vic, but the others were busy.

"Yeah, gettin' blown up alongside New York everytime a Magneto or some other freak mutant feels like it."

"Fer your information, Xavier sometimes just relocates folks, OK? My cousin Tony..."

"Yeah, I know! Yer whole family is in the mutant relocation programme thanks to those X-freaks. Now get over it! We got a job t'do here. Why're ya still standin' there, girl? Ya wanna join yer boss in hell, huh?"

Creed could almost picture her reaching for the car keys dangling from the driver's door and entering the mini-van through the back door.

"The boss's yellin' in my ears thanks t'you, Madre Theresa of mutants." Two of them started dragging him by his arms, while the other two grabbed his legs. Irbis was only now taking off.

"Stuff him in the van, quickly. I won't rest until I've got him drugged through an IV. How much longer 'fore the cops arrive?"

Right. If he was going to do anything it might as well be now. With an effort that sent the fire in his back once more ablaze, he stretched and locked his claws on the men holding his arms. Their warning yells amounted to nothing as they soon found themselves with their own arms nearly dissected. The men holding his legs immediately let go of him and started shooting; but Creed hadn't yet let go of the soldiers, one of whom was going for his own gun, and pulled them in front of him.

Creed's legs were still numb and he knew he couldn't run; so he couldn't avoid the showdown. Holding one of the wounded soldiers in front of him and discarding the one who had been hurt the most, he quickly realized he needed to back up against a protection so he wouldn't be shot from behind, and stumbled onto the nearest car.

Before he could reach it, though; three shots rang from behind him and his legs once more broke down under his weight, leaving him kneeling. He tried to stand up, and leap against the soldiers in front of him, but he couldn't move fast enough and simply got the men to shoot him a few more times. Creed breathed heavily, his hands hard on the asphalt refusing to falter.

"I told you he can NOT be underestimated!" A second shot. "He's to be considered deadly until he IS dead." A third shot. And a car moving somewhere in the car park. They'd probably bring the van (wherever it may be) to him, this time around. A fourth shot. His arms trembled as his strength slowly faded away, his vision blurred, his ears echoing the anger in the leader's voice yet barely registering the words themselves; but he still refused to go down. A fifth shot. The car was speeding now. How far off was it for it to have to speed so much? Warning yells. Creed fought to look up and steady his vision.

The two soldiers in front of him were shooting and then scrambled to the sides as a white vehicle came to a halt in front of him, a door opening. He didn't even have to think and simply reacted to the echoing "depressa, Mister Creed; DEPRESSA!", and to the shooting sounds from behind. Creed held on to the seat as the vehicle took off. His feet dragged through the road, while the door tried to close itself in spite of his dangling legs, but the woman didn't stop speeding until they were out of the car park. Even then she only slowed down enough to help him get in, and then she once more sped away.

Creed closed his eyes and allowed his healing factor to do its job as it rid his blood of whatever poison the bullets had. They hadn't wanted him dead. They would have shot him in the head, if they had wanted it. When the fire in his back and legs subsided, he opened his eyes. His vision was still blurred, and his ears were definitely not up to it, yet; but he straightened up in the seat and did his best to shake away the dizziness, trying to focus on the road ahead of him. He finally glanced at Irbis.

"Where ya headin'?"

Irbis took her eyes off the road and locked them with Creed's, breathing calmly despite the slight distress still shining in the wide open eyes.

"Keep yer eyes on the road, ya dimwit!" She obeyed promptly and Creed once more grumbled his previous question.

"I don't know!" She sounded exasperated. "I'm just driving… driving to some place far from... from..."

Creed grumbled the word mercs and didn't say anything else for a while. He could still feel the foreign heat burning insidiously through his veins. They were now leaving the city, going north, nothing but fields and tree patches all around them, and Creed was still trying to figure out who the mercenaries could have been. He decided he had to drop Irbis off to solve the matter, but if the ass-holes tried to tail-gate the mini-van she…

"M-."

Creed looked back and immediately seconded Irbis's swear word with its English counterpart, though with more heat in them. There was a military helicopter catching up with them. And this car didn't even carry any heat! Creed nearly fell off his seat when Irbis pulled the handbrake lever and made the car screech through a double spin, halting on the opposite lane. Then she sped wildly towards the city they had just left.

"What the Hell d'ya think ya're doin'?!"

Irbis was unfazed by Creed's yelling and kept her eyes both on the incoming chopper and the road ahead.

"Dey can't shoot us wid de elicopteroo if we're in de middle off a lot off people, right?" She glanced quickly at Creed. "Right?"

Not bad thinking. But the way they'd enter ripping through the diner, they wouldn't let innocent by-standers stand in their way. He could feel his strength finally trying to return, even if his healing factor had still a way to go before getting rid of the bullets' poison. Either that or the adrenaline surge was kicking up some strength for the fight ahead. Nevertheless, he figured he was ready to face those morons and kick their sorry asses to kingdom come; however, Irbis would be a dead weight around his neck if he did that. Although it wasn't like he was going to have much of a choice. Not when the chopper started landing on the middle of the road, its open cabin door showing off the armed mercenaries of before.

"OK, girl, listen…"

But Irbis wasn't listening. With another single Portuguese swear word, icy but intense, she turned right, got off the road, and bumped past a shallow ditch onto a grassy bank. She repeated the swear word at a regular interval as the car lost speed on the irregular terrain.

"We can't outrun 'em wi' this car, girl!" Creed glanced back and saw the chopper lift a bit more and get ready to cut them off again. "Listen ta me! I'm getting' out ta face the bastards and ya go back inta Madison and wait there fer me, got it?"

"I can't leave you aqui! Dey kill you!" Irbis gazed into his amber eyes with dread, much to his annoyance.

"Don't be a moron. I can handle those clowns with my eyes closed."

She didn't look convinced, but the skids of the chopper grazed against the roof and she agreed. Turning left, she tried to get back onto the road, but the left side wheels got stuck in the ditch. Clenching her teeth, she tried to skid about and finally managed to spin onto the road. However, the car did so out of control, and Creed had to get a hold of the driving wheel to help her steady the vehicle.

Once it came to a halt, Creed jumped off the car and onto the mercenaries, who were already out and shooting their guns at him. But Creed knew the drill: it was just one more of those almost-getting-killed situations he was so used to. He dodged much of the bullets, but many more were coming his way. As his body, which had yet to fully recover from the previous assault, was driven over the normal pain and resistance threshold, his vision went red and he stopped thinking.

His body was now working by instinct, mauling everything under its range, and it would probably keep running even if someone were to chop his head off. Hardly listening to his own roar, Creed plunged forward again and again until one of his opponents let himself be caught. Cutting his gut open, he used the body like a shield as he got hold of the guy's gun and shot at the other mercenaries.

He wasn't sure for how long the fight dragged on. The first hint that something was wrong was when Creed realized that his vision, still reddish from his berserker rage, was blurred. His whole body was burning so painfully by then, that he couldn't even feel the dead body he knew he was still holding. He could still hear shooting, but he had no idea if he was the target or not, because his brain simply refused to register any more pain.

Soon, the blurred vision became darkened and Creed couldn't see anything at all. The only part of him still working were his ears, but the sounds were all muffled and distorted. Eventually, he realized he had stopped moving, and fought in vain as his conscience slowly drifted away.


	4. Surprise, surprise

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **4\. Surprise, surprise**

Creed came slowly to in his bed, frowning at the mouldy scent of the sheets. He got up, feeling his muscles sore, and blinked. Something wasn't quite right. Irbis was the personification of perfectionism when it came to her house duties, and never once had she failed to leave his bed with the most reassuringly light aroma of pine trees. He got up and left the bedroom.

The corridor was as clean as it should, a glimmer of light resting on the particles floating in the air and which not even Irbis could manage to vacuum away. The mouldy scent seemed to pursue him though, even as he climbed down the wooden stairs. The wood gleamed from a recent oil treatment but it lacked the scent it should have.

Downstairs, the morning light filled the open living room area despite the barrier of the curtains. It had never had any, which had never bothered him; but one day he had arrived and found that not only had Irbis put curtains on every single window in the house – to prevent any passers-by from prying – she had also bought blinds to be ran down when the lights were on, which would have helped anyone outside to see through the light fabrics much too easily for her taste. He had laughed at her, but she had been adamant: even in her Portuguese village, where everyone knew everyone and robberies happened seldom and by the hands of outsiders, she had always seen that hallmark of simple protection: full external blinds that could be locked for further protection and a good set of curtains for protection against curious neighbour eyes. He had shrugged. He couldn't really diss her for trying to up the house protection, however futile that attempt might be.

This morning, the white curtains with just a touch of unpretentious embroidery at the floor-sweeping bottom danced in the wind and he went up to the open window. Irbis was outside, working on the vegetable garden. Not that it was really a vegetable garden – it held more herbs than vegetables – but at least she hadn't shoved up a flowery garden. Plus, he liked the taste her herbs lent the food. She didn't see him immediately but when she did, she smiled unintentionally.

"Good morning, Mister Creed," she said in the lightly cheerful voice of the people who get a kick out of watching the sun rise. "Coffee and eggs or you want something else today?"

Creed sniffed the air. He knew exactly how it should smell – a mix of herbs, pine trees and faint exhaust pipes – but instead he felt the mouldiness of his bed linen. He rubbed his face, trying to shake off what he was starting to be sure was a phantom scent of some sort. Perhaps from some dream he couldn't recall? Irbis had come up to him and her smile had lost some of its openness, as it usually did when she caught herself smiling too brightly. She knew it sometimes ticked him off.

"Coffee and eggs?"

"Yeah, whatever!" He walked away from the house and approached the trees, irritation dripping through the cracks. Something was deeply wrong, but he still couldn't even begin to comprehend what. Getting all fired up wouldn't help him figure it out, though, so he tried to take a deep breath and calm down. He didn't need to sniff the air to know that all he could smell all around him was that same mouldy scent he had woken up to. And there was also the soreness covering him from head to toe, though his back and arms were especially grumpy.

He looked back at the house and was startled to see Irbis outside. She should be inside preparing his breakfast – which she did better than any five star restaurant – not outside slitting a chicken's neck. He frowned. Irbis was wearing a different pair of jeans and a different T-shirt. Her movements as she cut the bird's neck and then let its blood flow into a large bowl created a slight sense of déjà vu. He had only seen her preparing a chicken once and she had been wearing those exact same clothes. It could be a coincidence, but he didn't believe in coincidences. He studied her gestures, much as he'd done before: the way she held the struggling chicken with ease and her attention at the blood pooling in the bowl.

He came closer and she looked up, her usual light smile shining up at him.

"Hi, mister Creed. I go prepare chicken like you never eat before. And dis is chicken created with real food, not animal ration. I have certain you will like it."

He didn't answer. That had been the exact same thing she had said, the first time he'd seen her killing a chicken and, it was now clear, the only time he'd seen her doing it. This was a memory.

Irbis looked back at the chicken, which had ceased struggling, and cut the neck a bit more deeply. She was still smiling, perhaps more brightly even, enjoying the job. He revisited the feeling he'd had, a feeling of pleasure at not having killed the girl. She was stubborn, true, but she kept the house exactly as he liked having it and, much more importantly, smelling. It had always been a safe house; now it felt like a safe home. There was also a sense of danger behind that idea, home, but it felt so good he ignored it. It wasn't any real danger anyway.

The memory continued playing before him. Irbis knelt temporarily to stir the blood with the blade of the knife, her hand naturally bloodied, then poured in some lemon juice and returned to the former squatting position. She needn't explain it was to keep the blood from clotting and simply said "dis is a specialty dat I learn wid my grandmoder".

She looked up again. Her face had some sprinkled blood and the morning light made her brown eyes greenish.

"De food you give de chicken decides if de meat tastes good," Creed relived the second feeling that coursed through his body as his eyes, centered on her face, enjoyed the relaxation on her fit body. A hand was still gripping the two wings and the other arm was now resting on a knee that had been propped up, the knife lax on her expert fingers. "But de way you kill de chicken is very important too. And de way you treat de blood."

"And ya know the secret, huh?" He had said, the feeling barely increasing his heart beat but leaving him very much aware of that increase.

Irbis had dropped the knife in the bowl to pick it up. "I had fivety years when I killed a chicken by de first time," and Creed once more enjoyed the ease of her fluid movements when she got up. "I killed many chickens after dat _and_ cooked de chickens too."

The quiet confidence turned her into something else he couldn't quite identify; something far beyond the helplessly stubborn frail she usually was. The perfume of blood surrounding her frankness made her alluringly attractive.

"You sink, sorry... you think is not good, and you can torture me until I die." She had said it with a smirk and the slightest twitch of her head, provoking him unintentionally, and turned to go to the kitchen.

It was a memory, Creed knew. A memory where his nose picked nothing but that mouldy scent he should be focusing on to make sense of what really was going on. But the aroma of the chicken blood had overcome the mouldiness and he suddenly did what he hadn't done the first time. Grabbing Irbis by an arm, he swirled her back to him and kissed her fully, hungrily. The thought had caught him off guard the first time and he hadn't acted on it. Now though... now he was reshaping a memory. He was dreaming. The mouldy scent that had plagued him was the smell of the place where he was. Creed closed his eyes, divided between enjoying that dream kiss and snapping out of the dream altogether.

The dream unwund itself, leaving only darkness and that smell, that soon gained an earthy compound. Focusing on it, Creed then smelt, and felt, the dampness. And the natural cool. The rough rock. The large, cold metal shackles. Muffled, echoed sounds. A cave.

Creed maintained his body perfectly relaxed as if he was still unconscious. His back, which had taken the brunt of the poisoned bullets, was aching steadily and his sore, cramped muscles managed to complain despite their immobility. It was the soreness of his dream, but augmented over ten times. Sniffing carefully, so as not to be noticed, he ascertained that Irbis was in the cave, too, although not close. There were three other guys, as well. He couldn't feel any drafts, so they were probably very deep underground; however, the cavity seemed to be a natural formation since the rock he was fallen over was in its rough natural state.

The men were talking, but were too far off for him to get all the details. The only thing he could figure out was that they were keeping him caged until someone arrived to finish him off. He heard their footsteps fading away as two of them walked off, and he heard a door being opened and locked. Bolted over, actually, by the sound of it. The third guy stayed behind, but never came anywhere near him. Which meant there must be a camera on the spot. As for Irbis… keeping in mind the strength of the scents, she was probably in the same room as the guy on the watch.

There was no sense in pretending to still be out, so Creed opened his eyes and ascertained he was indeed in a cave. It was a natural formation, shaped like a small rounded room, but the entrance had been fitted with a state-of-the-art safe-door. He wouldn't even be surprised if the bars were made of adamantium, or at least laced with it. He looked at them intently and distinguished occasional almost imperceptible flares. So the bars were connected by some sort of energy field. Just great!

He got up with a wince at the sharp pain that suddenly jolted through his system and sat down. His body was still far from recovering from the previous attack, which wasn't normal. Looking around for the camera, his amber eyes quickly spotted its eye, hidden in a nook near the door. His hands were caught behind him, all but swallowed up by some sort of smooth, extra-large shackles. They immobilized him effectively, preventing him from stretching and easing his sore arms; however, they weren't like those glove-like shackles most folks used to lock him up with, which meant he could still count on his claws.

Glancing around one more time, he decided things didn't look so good.

However, there was absolutely nothing he could do at the moment, so he'd just have to relax and let his body mend itself. Soon, he supposed, the chump who had probably orchestrated all this would show up and he'd burst his way out. He wondered if the chump was coming to ace him himself or to watch as his paid dogs did the job. He shrugged. Whatever.

"This. Is. Boring." He grumbled under his breath. He always preferred facing off villains with the common-sense to not waste his time. If nothing else, the adrenaline would make his body shut up with the complaining.

He wondered what time it was. He had no idea for how long he'd been out, and he hadn't been able to find anything he could use as a way to measure time. Even Irbis and the other guy were qu…

"Hey!"

A muffled thump, followed by an echoed metallic crash startled the silence.

"Ahh! Ya bitch…"

Creed got up, hands bound behind his back, and came closer to the entrance. There was a shot; then another thump, but this one sounded like an axe hitting flesh and it was followed by a scream from the man and the unmistakable scent of blood. The guard, in-between screamed cursing and apparently vain threats, sounded like he had been definitely overpowered by someone, but he still couldn't smell anyone but the guy and Irbis…

"OK... You tell me how I free Mister Creed, now."

Holy… Creed blinked in disbelief. That was Irbis's voice. He sat down as the man yelled, threatened her, yelled some more, called her every dirty word the English language allowed for, and yelled again; the scent of blood growing progressively stronger. Irbis's voice wasn't heard once.

It took a while, but he broke. Soon afterwards, the energy field disappeared from the door and its bolt was unlocked. Creed didn't need an invitation and immediately left the small room, his hands still bound by the large shackles. He found himself in a corridor: there were at least two other cell entrances to the left, but the air seemed staler than to the right. He followed through the short stone corridor to a grand cave room. The ceiling was covered in stalactites and the floor in stalagmites, which from where Creed stood looked like a small forest. On the other side of the large cave room, half hidden by the stalagmite wood, there was a large area that had been cleared to suit a wide metal floor plate where two large metallic desks blinked with small lights, one with surveillance TV screens, the other with apparently random high technology ware.

As he approached, he noticed that each desk included two fire sets, apparently composed of fire extinguisher and axe. He also noticed that one set was missing the fire extinguisher, which was on the metallic floor, near the surveillance desk, while the other set was missing the axe.

When Creed came close enough to look past the wall of stalagmites, he saw Irbis looking coolly at the floor. Then he noticed the guard she was gazing at. He was tied up to a stalagmite with electric cables and bleeding profusely from a half-chopped leg. Irbis looked up at Creed, as he appreciated her work, and then back at her prisoner:

"Where are de keys to free de hands off Mr Creed?"

"Fu…"

Creed kicked the guy's wounded leg with a vicious grin, while the man yelled.

"Watch yer mouth in front o' the lady, ya lil' piece o'shit."

He glanced over at her, grinning his appreciation for her highly unpredictable move. Her hands were coated in bright red blood, which had left black stains all over her clothes, and there was a small knife in her hand. He watched her as she croutched next to the man and looked him in the eye.

"De keys."

"You're dead, bitch. You and him both. There's no way you can get out of here; the door…"

Irbis plunged the knife in the guy's good leg as casually as if she were opening up a hole in a piece of meat, and twisted it around. Creed couldn't help his widening grin, especially as he saw her absolutely professional expression.

"Need some spices ta season the meat?"

She looked up and blinked, silently. He was sure he wouldn't be able to guess what was going on in the woman's head if he lived a thousand years.

Resuming her intent gaze at the man, she almost whispered: "De keys."

The mercenary was sweating profusely and his face was distorted by pain. It was such a stark contrast to Irbis's face: composed, controlled, focused, calm. She looked almost pretty, with some blood sprinkled across her right cheek, and definitely alluring. It made her look paler, and at the same time it enhanced the darkness of her wavy hair, as well as the darkness of her brown eyes.

"The coded card… place it… place it in the slot. On the desk."

He closed his eyes and set his jaws hard. He ground his teeth together when she asked him about the code. Apparently, her gentleness while posing the question annoyed him, as he opened his blood-shot eyes and spit on her face. Creed almost ended the show right there and then, but he stopped in time to enjoy Irbis's absolute coolness. She used the back of her hand to clean her face from the bloodied spit, and slowly inserted the tip of the knife in the axe wound. He strained, trying not to scream; but then she twisted the blade and he could do nothing but let out the pained roar that shook him almost to unconsciousness.

Irbis withdrew the knife and waited silently, almost soothingly. She allowed the man to recover his breath, to compose himself. When he once more opened his eyes, she was simply looking at him with the most seriously professional face any assassin could hope for.

"Eight… six… four… three…"

Creed recognized the woman's usual efficiency as she went over to the desk and searched for the card, then for the slot. Finally, she typed in the code and the shackles unlocked with a smooth 'woosh'. Relieved, the blond threw them away and carefully stretched every muscle in his body, while Irbis quickly returned to the man's side. She was so cold and emotionless, he couldn't help but admire.

"Now, de code to de door, please."

Creed almost laughed. "Please!" She wasn't simply efficient and emotionless, she was funny, too. Still, he didn't have time to laugh, because the tortured guard did so first. Irbis blinked but didn't seem to be affected by it.

"It's… locked!" He chuckled weakly on her face, unable to truly laugh out at her. "It can't be… opened from the inside… and before anyone… come in… I'll have to… to report. There's a camera… it'll show the team… outside… it'll show them everything."

He chuckled again, but Creed cut it short as he grabbed him by the collar. He screamed again as his arms and body strained, still tied to the rocky pillar; but he mustered enough strength to spit his last words at Creed:

"You' re. Both. Dead!"

xXx

According to the guard's wrist watch, it was exactly 1:54 in the morning.

Creed was sore, soaked, cold and hungry. He had spent two hours exploring the tunnels past his holding cell. There had been a door sealing the tunnels off, after half a dozen cells, some natural, others opened up artificially, but it hadn't offered much resistance. However, and unlike what the guard had said before falling unconscious, there was a way out.

When he returned to the wide cave room, the first thing he noticed was that Irbis hadn't moved since he had left: she was still sitting quietly by the fainted guard, holding her knees to her breast and looking at the ground. Her previous behaviour, although more than welcomed, had stricken him as odd and out of character; but now she was clearly in shock. She had probably been in shock all along, only it had made her act usefully, for a change. Unfortunately, said useful behaviour had reached its limit alongside the guard's usefulness.

He reached for the guy and quickly slit his throat open. He wasn't needed anymore. Irbis looked up at him, expectantly.

"Move it, girl. I found our way out."

She acknowledged this information quietly, by simply getting up and following him. They had been walking for almost fifteen minutes, Creed going ahead with a flashlight, when he got bored with her silence.

"How d'ya get lose?"

"Hun?" She couldn't have sounded more catatonic.

"I asked ya how the hell ya got lose." He growled. "And ya might as well spit out how ya got an upper hand on that asshole. He's still a mercenary, y'know? He wasn't supposed ta be taken out by a…"

Creed glanced at her, her eyes mere slits locked on him, as he muttered "helpless chick", and saw her trip and fall. He caught her before she hit the rocky ground, though.

"Will ya look where ya're puttin' yer feet?!"

"I'm sorry. I…" He pulled her to his side and continued walking, but this time holding her by the arm as if she were a little girl about to fall. "I just… Dey put me... uh... algemas... uh... de sings dat de police have..."

"Handcuffs."

"Pois, handcuffs. But my hands are very small and I could get a hand out off de handcuffs. He was watching TV in de small TVs and didn't see."

Her foot slipped on a rock and she went a bit down again.

"Dammit, girl! Do I have ta carry ya, too?"

She valiantly struggled on; but, much for Creed's annoyance, she had hurt her foot and couldn't go as fast as he did anymore. It couldn't be more cliché if she tried!

"Well, dere was one off dat red bottles wid uh... spume to erase fires," she continued, trying to ignore both her hurt foot and the man's irritation, "and I pick it up and tried to hit him wid it, but he saw me and took his gun and try to shoot me, but he miss and I just hit him in de shoulder, and de gun fall when I hit him. But de bottle was very heavy and it escape my hands; after I saw de axe and I got it and I hit his leg and he fell dis time, and he couldn't do many because off de arm where I hit him... wid de red fire bottle... he didn't could move dat arm. So den I just use de... de cables dat were in a… one off dis sings people have in areas off construction wid cables to put in what dey're building… Dey had…"

"'S OK. I got the picture already."

She sighed while he grumbled that she was 'a lucky lil' bitch'.

"Don't call me dat." She said quietly but sternly.

He looked down at her.

"What ya gonna do, 'lil' bitch'? Ya gonna try an' axe me when I ain't lookin'?"

"Do not," she declared icily, eyes blazing even in the dark, "call me beach."

She had hardly finished speaking when she found herself pinned to the rough wall, a clawed hand on her neck.

"I'll call ya whatever I wants, frail!" He roared, his face just inches away from hers.

In one swift motion, he grabbed her and threw her body over his shoulder as if she were a bag of potatoes. She didn't even have the decency to thrash around for a few seconds, and simply went limp. Creed wished he had thought about this sooner. A camping backpack was heavier than the girl, and he was able to cover ground much faster than if he had continued dragging her behind him. Twenty more minutes and he found the second tunnel he had been on the lookout for. Ten more and he dropped Irbis on the ground unceremoniously.

"Hope ya're ready fer our big escape," he grumbled. "How good a swimmer are ya?"

"Swim?"

"Yeah." And the sudden scent of fear filled the place. Creed looked at the woman, studying her paleness and quick, shallow breathing. "The way out's through this water hole, here. The surface is about half a minute away"

Irbis got closer to the wall on the right side of the tunnel and leaned on it; she was struggling to control her breathing, so as to not appear as panicky as she apparently was, but she still seemed faint.

"I take it ya can't swim, then." Which meant he would have to drag her behind him and, by the looks of it, she'd have to be knocked out, too. Problem was, she couldn't hold her breath if she was out.

Irbis was looking up at him, and he could see it in her eyes she was petrified.

"Enough wi' the exageration already, dammit! Ya ain't gonna drown just 'cause ya can't swim. All ya have ta do is hold on ta me while I swim. And hold yer breath. Or stay here."

Irbis quickly stuttered she could, would do it, but if Creed didn't know better he'd say she was seeing death in the eye. A long, painful death.

"Fer cryin' out loud! What kind of a moron are ya? I mean, ya ain't scared o' facin' a group o' mercs but ya shit yerself over a quick dive?"

"Is different," she mumbled through clenched teeth.

"Yeah, sure it is." Shaking his head, Creed dove in. When he returned to the surface, Irbis's face was a mask of frightened determination. Yet she was still far from the water hole.

"Is different," she mumbled more to herself than for him. "I'm not part off dis..."

"Ain't part of what, moron? What are ya whimperin' 'bout?"

She looked at him. "I'm not part off dis... dis your world. You kill and live in all dis, and is natural to you. And de adrenaline, and de fight, and de almost die... Is not normal to me. I'm not off dis world of kill and... and..."

"Don't say! Well, ya sure could have fooled me. Look, girl, get two simple things int' yer head: First, the way ya handled yerself back there, ya fit in better 'an most hero folks goin' 'round! Second: there ain't no 'my world', 'your world'. This is all the same world fer everyone... some folks just tend to keep blinders over their eyes so they only see what they want to." Irbis lowered her head. "Now, ya gonna stay there fer those mercs ta get their hands on ya or what?"

With a deep wavering breath, Irbis sat down on the brim of the water hole. Slowly, following the mutant's instructions, she eased herself down and onto his back. Nevertheless, her breathing was erratic and the stench of fear was growing stronger.

"I told ya ta put yer arms 'round my neck, not ta try and strangle me!"

Too stiff to even apologize, Irbis's death grip shifted from his neck to his breast, as she clung to his shirt. Then she embraced his waist with her legs, so they wouldn't get in the way of his legs as he swam.

"We's gonna take several deep breaths 'fore holdin' our breaths fer the swim, got it? Sync with me an' pay attention ta my signal, so ya'll know when ta hold yer breath." He waited a few seconds and then added in a low growl: "Ya may wanna SAY somethin' so I knows ya understood me!"

"I understand." Her heart was still beating wildly against his back. "Deep breade and sink… I understand."

Usually, Creed would have taken two deep breaths before submerging, but Irbis's breathing was so erratic and shallow he actually held on to the brim and coached her through two minutes of steady, rhythmic breathing in and out. Finally, when he thought she was ready, he counted to three with his hand and dove.

Irbis followed his lead perfectly, although rather stiffly, and did her best to smash his ribs. Although annoyed by his cargo, Creed didn't have any problems swimming under the low submerged ridge and then speeding up to the surface. However, before he could reach it, he felt the girl strengthen her grip desperately and was shocked by something warm spilling down his back.

This could not be happening. It simply could not…

He surfaced to the stench of wet vomit.


	5. First Lesson: Preys and Predators

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **5\. First Lesson: Preys and Predators**

Walking through the rocky, darkened landscape carrying Irbis's dead weight over his shoulder, which to make it all worse still insisted in remaining sore, Creed was not a happy man.

"I can walk, I can walk…" He snorted, repeating Irbis's shy attempt at making herself less of a hindrance. "Ya can shut yer yap an' keep it that way, 's what ya can do!"

Creed wondered how far off they might be from a road and houses. He needed to eat if he wanted his body to react faster. What in Hell had they poisoned him with!?

"I'm sorry I fainted." She sighed softly for the one thousandth time, "I'm sorry, but I couldn't control. I tried! I'm sorry…" And for the one thousandth time, she obeyed his growl and became silent.

Every time she mentioned fainting on him, not remembering what else she had done on him, he could once more feel the warmth down his back. And every time he had a hard time believing the blasted kid had actually gone so far as to throw up all over his back. Belong to his world? The blasted moron didn't belong to anyone's world! Growling without even realizing it anymore, he once more regretted her initiative of fainting all by herself, as they were reaching the surface, since he'd have loved to have knocked her out himself. Instead, he had just thrown her on the ground and shred his shirt to pieces. He felt on the verge of going berserk, but that was something he couldn't afford to do so he just growled and stomped onwards.

Then, at long last, he saw them: a row of half a dozen houses providentially perked on the top of an elevation and separated by a few hundred feet. Moving with renewed energy, he chose a gully that offered a better path up the cliff side of the elevation. Soon, he started moving more stealthily, trying to choose the best target. The first two-floor house had a closed garage and no extra car on the drive-way. The second one had an extra-car, though. Creed dropped Irbis and surveyed the two houses carefully.

"Are you going to rob dat car?"

Creed turned to her, growling, which for some reason that eluded Creed, surprised the girl. It would be so easy to just beat her face to a fine, bloody pulp.

"No, ya moron," he snarled, "I ain't gonna rob that car. The assholes would report it stolen first thing in the morning an' those mercenaries would know which car t' be on the lookout fer."

Taking a deep breath to control his rage, he decided it wasn't the girl's fault but the drugs'; they were driving him over the edge. In a random attempt to belly that violent impulse, he wet his lips and kept talking. "What I'm gonna do is get in that first house, kill everyone in it an' then steal their car, which should be in the garage. That way, there ain't gonna be no one alive ta report it in, an' the neighbours won't notice there's a car missing."

Irbis frowned attentively while he was speaking and bit her lip when he finished.

"But if dey don't go to work, deir bosses don't go try to contact dem and den call de police to check dem?"

"On a Sunday?!" He got up without loking at her, to avoid any temptations. "Follow my every move. Quietly, if ya think ya can manage that much."

Creed entered the house easily. He didn't even look for an open or unlocked window, he simply went straight for the flimsy back door, extending his claws and opening a small hole that rendered the lock useless. One minute, and almost no noise. Irbis, probably afraid she might get on his way, decided to stay quietly behind, in the neatly cleaned kitchen; but the killer had other ideas and motioned for her to follow.

He kept an ear on the girl as she followed him through the darkened house, avoiding banging onto several plant pots; up the carpeted stairs and down a short corridor with innumerous family and holiday photos lined up and down the walls; following under his shadow all the way to the door to the master bedroom. Irbis stood very still as he approached the bed and swiftly covered the mouths of both wife and husband and shook them up. The couple's wrinkled arms flailed around momentarily before clasping desperately to his arms.

"Not a sound," Creed spoke coldly, "and ya won't get hurt."

He waited a moment to give the couple the chance to calm down. Then, when he let go of their faces, he went around the bed and put a feet on its bottom, resting his left arm on it.

"Whatch'ya doin' tomorrow." He said it like an order, not a question.

Both wife and husband were in their late seventies or early eighties. The woman was thin and delicate, too frightened to say anything; the man wasn't fat all over, but did carry a large belly and looked around as if he was trying to find an escape out of the room. As if! It was the woman who answered: nothing, just the usual...

"Ain't that lucky!" Creed grinned at Irbis, repeating the old folks' answer. "Nothin' scheduled but cookin', readin' and watchin' TV." Looking back at his victims, he continued: "How's about family an' friends. Anyone's comin' over, or are ya expected ta call someone, or…"

"We usually phone our daughter and grandchildren after dinner," the old lady said softly, her body trembling as she kept the white sheet up to her chest.

The mutant once more turned to look at Irbis, looking straight into her eyes before going over to the old lady's side. In a quick motion he grabbed both by the neck and dropped them. They flopped down one over the other as Creed walked over to Irbis.

"You broke deir neck." Irbis commented softly, stiffly.

Creed looked back at his handy-job. "Yupe. Unlike popular say-so, I don't usually goes about rippin' guts apart an' gettin' everythin' bloodied unless my vics get me really pissed. Or unless I'm bein' paid fer it, obviously."

He failed to mention that, at this point, if he got a sniff of blood he'd probably go berserk. He looked back at her. "D'ya remember yer crap 'bout my world, where we goes about killin' an' dyin', and yer world o' perfect innocence and beds o' roses?"

Irbis frowned a 'yes', not understanding his point.

"Great. Now tell me, which world d'ya think these two belonged ta, huh? Yers? 'Cause, ya see, if they'd been smart, they'd set up a surveillance system connected ta the cops; they'd have good, solid doors and good alarms. Maybe even a guard dog. If they had had all that, I'd have moved on to an easier vic. As it is, they's dead. Why? 'Cause there's one single world out here, and it's nothin' but a world of preys and predators. Ya either line up with the predators, or with the preys. Take yer pick!"

She held his gaze steadily but didn't say anything.

* * *

It wasn't nine yet, when Creed got off the I-10 onto a small town by the name of Sierra Blanca. He quickly located a small diner and pulled over. He was tired and cranky; almost too tired to go berserk, actually. He'd been driving for three hours and a half while not having slept anything that night; the hours he'd been unconscious did certainly not count as sleeping. To make it worse, the old couple had been vegetarians so there hadn't been anything substantial for him to eat so far. Irbis, on the other hand, not only had taken an assortment of fruit which she had spent the first hours nibbling on, as she had fallen asleep and napped carefreely most of the drive. If he hadn't been so exhausted, he'd have kept her painfully awake just to relief his annoyance.

He looked at the restaurant from the car. They didn't have time to waste in a restaurant, no matter how hungry he might be. He woke the girl up when he grabbed her by her sweater and shook her roughly about a couple times to help her dispel any remaining sleepiness. Then, he pulled her closer to him, her hands gripping his arm, and silenced her complaints with a single glare.

"Ask fer four menus. Take-away." He shoved Irbis backwards and threw some money over to her. "Bring a couple beers and make sure they're cold."

As she walked away, Creed rested his head on the driving wheel. He needed to rest. The mercenaries would try to get on their trail – if they weren't already – and he'd rather not face them before having the chance to stop by his hideout in Dallas and pack up some toys. He swore under his breath. The one thing really pissing him off were those darned poisoned bullets, not to mention the IV they'd hooked him up to, according to Irbis, and which had kept him out. His healing factor hadn't got around clearing his system from the darned toxin; which meant he needed some toys if he was going to face the punks. He wondered for the millionth time what toxin they had used that could take his healing factor so long to push through.

He felt his muscles brokenly relaxed. His body might be able to put up with tons of abuse when his adrenaline levels were up, but when they went down and he relaxed… it was a whole different story. The warm breeze from the open window blanketed him, and he felt his body's imperious demand for rest sweep over him. He closed his eyes, telling himself he couldn't sleep just yet. Even if that was really the best he could do for his body to finish mending itself. He'd have to be in his best condition soon.

Steps on the gravel.

Creed forced his eyes open and stared at the black plastic of the steering wheel. Then he rested his chin on his hands, which were on the top of the wheel, and looked at the parallel long dark paths of asphalt cutting through the dull, light brownish land; cluttered with scattered buildings for the time being. Soon they'd be out on open land, though, and even scattered signs of human presence outside the highway would be sparse.

Irbis opened the door and got in, immediately giving him an account of what she had bought, how much it had cost, and finishing by out-stretching a hand with the change. Creed looked at it lazily.

"My lunch." He snorted. "And my beer."

He straightened himself and stretched his limbs as best he could without exiting the vehicle while she got the requested items from the brown bags.

"Mr Creed," she essayed softly as she handed him his food, "I know we don't have very time… I sleeped more dan you last night, and now in de car, so I'm not really very tired. Do you want me to drive while you eat?"

"No." And he didn't. He hated going in a car driven by someone else.

With a sigh, he got off and fully stretched every muscle in him. Then he got in the back.

"I'm gonna take a nap. Ya wake me up 'cause of any of yer bad drivin', I'll have ya runnin' after the car fer the rest o' the journey. Got it?"

Irbis shot out of the car with an earnest 'yes, sir' and quickly took the driver's seat for herself. Creed tried to relax. They had hundreds of straight ahead miles before reaching Dallas. How badly could the girl mess it up?

* * *

Murdock jumped off the helicopter and quickly made his way to the entrance. He'd been born piloting, as far as he could tell, and all his life had revolved around planes and helicopters. He particularly enjoyed scarying his colleagues with unexpected acrobatics, which had earned him the code name Murdock, inspired on the A-Team's crazy pilot; but his strongest affinity was with the flying aces of the First World War, and to prove it, he wore goggles of those days everytime he flew. Unfortunately, that habit had only underlined the code name he'd been attributed, instead of something like Red Baron, or simply Ace, as he'd preferred.

Taking off the goggles at the headquarters entrance, he gazed into the eye of a hidden camera, waiting for the machine to check his identity before unlocking the access door. Behind him, his colleagues were helping an old man out; the Colonel staying closer to him. Murdock hurried into the first room and went directly for the coffee machine. There was nothing he enjoyed more after a long flight than to have a nice, strong cup of coffee.

The room looked like a club, a snooker table in the middle with some targets for darts hanging on the walls, not to mention a wide flat screen next to a shelf filled with DVDs. The coffee machine was hidden amidst a collection of drinks at the bar.

"Murdock, I'm goin' down ta check on the mark." Stallone, blond and with a symmetric face, unlike his namesake, jogged passed the room. "Doc needs his blue bag ASAP, so ya better fetch it."

Doc, as his uninspired codename implied, was the group's medic. He was an organisation freak and enjoyed colour-coding the world around him, to make up for the general lack of order in life. As it was, he had organised several green bags, which carried emergency stuff for any kind of wound, strategically located at the headquarters and most used transports; and a yellow bag, which had all the required instruments to make the most reticent man sing like a bird. The blue bag wasn't used much, since it included medicines and what-not catering to everyday problems the men just needn't worry about, like high-collesterol, or colds, or whatever.

Having just switched the machine on, Murdock couldn't see a valid reason why he should abandon his position for the said blue bag, of all the things, especially when Froggie was just entering. A young blond whose French parents had become American before he was born, his French was as fluent as his English, a proficiency that was closely followed by a handful of other languages, including computer gibberish, as Murdock called it. Not that Murdock had anything against gibberish – he had a particular interest in flying gibberish, modern and old alike.

"Hey, Froggie. Get Doc's blue bag, will ya? I'm fixin' some coffee t'go 'round."

"Get some beers t' go 'round instead; not everyone's a coffee junkie." That unhealthy lack of interest in coffee, though, was something Murdock took personally.

The Colonel, piercing blue eyes and short brownish hair, was getting in as Froggie left, helping the elderly man – Torini, their employer – who was gasping and walking gingerly, his face terribly pale.

"There you go, Mister," Doc was saying, "just sit down and relax. Ya'll be as good as new in no time."

Murdock hoped the death of his men might have something to do with his sickly colour. The Colonel had warned the old man that Sabretooth should be killed as soon as possible, not cooped up for later termination. Murdock just hoped the mutant wouldn't find a way to somehow fight back when the old geezer went down to kill him. Their group might have avoided any damage during capture, but three men were dead and three more nearly so because of one half-senile bastard, and it didn't matter that they had been extras the bastard himself had insisted on participating in the hunt. Murdock simply didn't want any more hiccups in this job.

Dobberman, a giant black man who'd been acclaimed as Mister Universe for a few minutes before icing his target, a judge in the competition, entered and closed the door behind him. Murdock handed him a cup of hot coffee and he nodded a silent thanks. He'd had his tongue chopped off some months after the Mr. Universe stunt, and had become a sullen mute after that. Nevertheless, he enjoyed a good, strong coffee more than any other man in the group, Murdock aside.

Doc got up to see why his bag was taking so long to arrive when both Stallone and Froggie reached the door. "About time," he grumbled taking the bag off the soldier's hands. Above his head, Stallone signalled earnestly for Colonel, making both Murdock and Dobberman frown. Doc hesitated only a moment, but he had to make sure their employer wouldn't die before the job was over and their fees duly paid. Moreover, the blond man had asked for the Colonel, nobody else.

"What?" The Colonel asked in a low voice, going over the door and noticing Stallone's blanched face more clearly.

"We got a problem, Sir. Sabretooth..." He gulped. "Sabretooth broke loose."

The Colonel cursed and shook his head. They should have killed the damned mutant right when they had the chance. "Fine. Get as much footage of the mutant's movements in the cave as possible so we can plan our way in without any more casualties. And tell Greg I wanna know how the hell he got lose ASAP. Where is he, anyway?"

The man hesitated and avoided his boss's gaze. Bennet 'Colonel' Wilson frowned, suddenly worried. "What? Is Greg hurt? Is that why he didn't..."

"Colonel..." The seasoned soldier paled, as he finally recognised the look in his man's eyes. "Greg didn't make it."


	6. Runaways

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **6\. Runaways**

Amidst the darkness of his dreamless sleep, Creed experienced a sense of sudden vertigo that had his body react instintively. His senses picked up on the grumbling in a foreign language, and his awakening conscience identified a sudden swerve as the source of the previous sense of vertigo.

"I told ya not ta wake me up, frail!" Creed kept his eyes closed, ready to doze off again, as he heard Irbis apologise and complain about 'tooning'.

"If ya can't handle it, why d'ya ask ta drive in the first place?" And then in a whispered grumble: "Moron."

He could feel the car speeding up, as well as listen to two very potent engines.

"Segure-se, Mr Creed. I'm going to uh... stop."

Creed hardly had time to hold on to the back of the front seat when Irbis hit the brakes hard. Then the car swerved to the left, sped up and swerved to the right, thumping onto something.

"What the hell ya doing, girl?!"

"Eu disse-lhe," she sounded annoyed but collected. "Os filhos da p- are trying to push me out off de road."

Creed almost got up but then thought against it, and let himself slide down to the small space between the back and the front seats. From there, he could more easily check the girl's moves.

"Lure'em out o' the road."

"What?!"

"I said, lure'em out o' the road. It's time we get ourselves a new ride."

"Leave de road? OK..." Irbis was speeding up, not getting her eyes out of the road and the two tuning cars. "Can I beat against de oder cars?"

"This ain't _my_ car. Do yer worse."

He was pleasantly surprised with her quickness of hands and feet. She swerved along with the tuning cars, alternately speeding and braking, with the help of gears to improve the engine's response. Soon, she swerved the car fully towards the hood of one of the cars which was presently falling slightly behind her. The other driver swerved too strongly to the left, and Irbis followed him all the way until they were out of the road.

"Get out and on the driver, quick." Creed instructed, as he heard the second car stopping and then approach his fallen partner. Irbis didn't even say anything and simply looked back at Creed, shocked at his idea.

"Do it, ya moron! I've taught ya enough fer ya ta be able t'hang on fer a few minutes." Well, he had, even if she had only learnt enough to hang on for a few seconds. But that wasn't his fault. "Just lure 'em both out o' the cars so they can't speed out o' here."

Hesitantly, Irbis started moving out of the car. From his hiding spot, Creed couldn't see anything, but he could hear that two kids had got off the marooned car, one of them a girl; and that the driver of the second car had opened the door, probably remaining ready to fall back in and speed off. He heard Irbis being insulted and threatened as the kids from the first car moved in on her.

Irbis started backing away from the enraged youths. Creed saw her go around the hood, the other two following behind. Only then, when he saw them for the first time, did he notice they weren't teens, but were rather in their twenties. The woman had a tough Goth look, and the guy looked like a mama's boy. Swiftly, he opened the left back door and got out unseen. Irbis was quickly approaching the second car, whose driver Creed could now see: he could have been the Goth chick's twin brother.

Creed waited until the Goth guy moved away from his car and towards Irbis. The girl looked more anxious than scared, probably waiting for his intervention anytime, while the three tuners surrounded her. The Goth chick moved in for the kill first, with a well aimed punch that had Irbis falling square on the floor. Dumb as the girl was, she didn't even try to kick back. He ought to let them work her up a bit, see if they could get her to react. Unfortunately, he wasn't interested either in wasting his time waiting, or in having the girl damaged.

Taking advantage of the distraction Irbis was affording, he walked up to the group. When they realized the trap, it was too late.

* * *

"Mrs. Winters! Mrs. Winters!"

The middle-aged woman set her hands on her hips and shook her head. Something was definitely wrong. The old lady always tended to her garden in the morning, even if only to check that no rabbits or snails had showed up during the night. Granted that, sometimes, she preferred spending the morning taking care of her home potted plants, but she still would have come out to check on the garden before lunch. Besides, the gentle old lady always took some minutes to chat about something.

She walked back to her house, decidedly, and went straight to the phone.

"Who're you callin'?"

"Well, who do you think I'm calling, Stanley? The police, obviously."

Stanley shook his head. "Why don't you just leave the folks alone, Mina? Ya're constantly bugging them. If I were Mrs. Winter I'd have moved by now!"

"Oh, shut up, you! It's past midday already and the house is as quiet as if it was abandoned. Can't you see that something has to be wrong?"

Stanley shrugged and decided to lie down for a while. He didn't want to be around when the police showed up to find out the neighbours were just sleeping in a little; and he sure as hell didn't want to be in his wife's way after being scolded by the police for being nosey.

* * *

Irbis was leaning on the seat holding an icy beer can onto her face, while Creed drove their new set of wheels: a black beauty with a boosted up engine and a disco-worth sound system.

Irbis hadn't said a word since Creed had broken the tuners' necks and instructed her on how to use the beer cans they had found in an ice-box on the car's back seat. The radio was playing, the hard metal CDs having been quickly discarded by the man, and Creed seemed annoyed in his stern silence.

Irbis changed the position of the can on her face and sighed.

"Shut yer yap, girl! That's ta teach ya ta use some o' the stuff I taught ya!" He growled hotly, much to Irbis's surprise. "I don't know why I wasted my time with ya fer so blasted long."

"I am not complaining, Mister Creed."

Her quiet assertiveness only further spiced the man's bad mood.

"Well, I AM!" Irbis half-flinched at his booming voice. "Ya drove like a pro, ya pushed the ass-hole off the road just fine… an' then ya let's 'em punks kick the hell out o' ya! What the blazes would ya've done if I hadn't been there, huh? Geez! Ya take out a mercenary, ya torture 'im, and then ya lets punks – blasted, harmless punks! – beat ya up! Explain ta me just what on Earth is wrong with ya, girl. What!"

Irbis looked down, torn between remaining quiet and answering. Soon, though, she changed her mind, because Creed had continued grumbling about her stupidity, her dumb helplessness, her…

"So I'm stupid, pronto!" He growled at the interruption. "Is just dat I couldn't move, OK? I didn't stop wid de guy in de cave but I stopped wid dis guys. I don't know why, I just stopped. I'm sorry!"

Creed continued grumbling for some more time while Irbis went back to her sullen silence, fighting the feeling of uselessness she knew wasn't true. Couldn't be.

* * *

"Colonel!" The tall man looked away from the screen, where he was once more going over the surveillance video, and looked at Froggie. "We got 'im , Sir."

That was all the older man needed to hear, and he was immediately on his feet.

"The local police are completely nuts over this, Colonel," Froggie continued, "it's like they ain't ever seen a murder before. It was an old couple who lived near the dam's reservoir. They've been killed and their car's missing. A neighbour thought something was wrong when there was no movement all morning and called the cops. Their necks were broken, which doesn't match Sabretooth's usual MO, but it's got to be him."

Narrowing his eyes but not glancing at his man, the Colonel growled under his breath. "What's the car plate and description?"

"It's an Oldsmobile, a beige Cutlass Ciera sedan. It's got a New Mexico plate, QLC-959."

"Keep tabs on the police communications; I want to know when they find the vehicle. I also want a list of all the safe-houses and suppliers Creed has in the area. His mutant healing factor won't have processed the toxins before 24 to 30 hours, which means we have until tonight at 11 to engage and bring him down. Have Doc and Murdock finished the inventory on the poisoned ammo?"

"Yes, sir. Last I checked, Doc was preparing darts with an extra dosage for a faster effect. Murdock's assistin' him."

"Good." He should have checked on it himself instead of going over the footage from Creed's escape endlessly. He'd seen all there was to see, which wasn't even much to start with. "That's good. Have Stallone and Doberman go over the safe-houses with you. Mark the best options... he'll have to go to a safe place to get his strength back, and will certainly want to up his chances with something more besides his mutant powers."

"Yes, Sir. I'll get right on to it."

The Colonel watched his man walk away. He had already regretted having accepted Paolo Torini's contract, even if it was worth a large fortune. The old man had sent seven of his own men to help in the hunt, and that extra help had taken the brunt of the casualties: three dead men, two severely wounded, a sixth only lightly wounded. Bennet Wilson didn't give a damn about them. They had been amateurs who'd brought it onto themselves. His brother, though, was another story. Greg was an accountat. Yes, he'd been in the army; yes, he'd been in a war scenario; yes, he loved a good hunt. He was still just an accountat and only participated in the tracking of their quarry, never in the live fire situations. Greg was just an accountant. And his little brother.

Wilson massaged his temples, to diminish the burning sensation in his eyes, and returned to the surveillance video. He once more studied the way the woman broke free, how she'd thrown the fire extinguisher and then got a hold of the axe. His body tensed when the blade severed his brother's leg, just as he pushed the emergency button that sealed off the doors and his fate. The tension kept building as the woman coldly used the knife on him to force him to talk. Every time his little brother screamed, the sound bore into the deepest of his soul where it ecchoed endlessly. When the video showed Creed slitting his throat, his muscles would relax slightly, only to tense again at the image of the woman standing up and marching cooly towards the cave tunnels.

She looked Hispanic, but she wasn't Spanish-speaking, nor French nor Italian, since Froggie swore those languages leave an easy to spot accent. He was pretty sure she wasn't an American, though... The only name he had to go on was the name she'd given earlier, Marta dos Santos Pereira, which was a Portuguese name. If the nationality was right, even if the name was fake, that meant she was either from Brazil or from Portugal. Or any ex-Portuguese colony: Angola, Mozambique, Cape Verde, Goa, Timor, Macao...

Wilson set the video to the beginning, studying every line of the woman's face, every movement, every sound. He studied the determination she stabbed her brother with. Cold, detached, deliberate. She had masked her true colours under the cover of harmlessness, but in the end had shown herself to be a psycopath.

How could he have got that darned bitch so wrong?

* * *

In the temporary silence after once more switching the radio off, Creed's eyes rebelled for the first time. It was only 12.40 and he was still facing at least four hours of driving! He snarled at the aggravation and switched the darned radio again, straight into a deadly interpretation of Kenny Rogers's 'Lucille'. It could lull to sleep an insomniac! He changed abruptly to another station only to be received by Justin Timberlake's voice. He didn't even bother to hear what he was singing; he hated those pretty-boys-wanna-be's too much to care. The rap noise that followed cringed on his nerves and he switched to another station where Dolly Parton's voice wailed 'what a heartache, what a heartache'. Next came a guitar solo in some truck driving song. He didn't like it at all, but at least it would neither lull him to sleep nor spur him into a berserker rage.

When the song finally came to an end, Creed's exasperated mind was greeted by an actually soothing well-known tune. The piano followed the drummer's beat, overscored by a four man brassband, and Creed nearly sighed in relief, switching the volume up. When the man's raspy voice made its appearance, Creed started drumming distractedly on the driving wheel. It was a song he particularly liked and there had better be no messing it up, the way he'd been progressively aggravated for the last 24 hours.

Then he noticed the girl, who'd been wise enough to stay motionless since they had got the new car, rocking to the rhythm of the song, her fingers drumming the rhythm on the still cold beer can on her lap. It was good to know she had some musical good taste, outside her classical music universe. But then another voice joined the singer's, begging "take off your dress. Yes, yes, yes!" He wouldn't have picked it up, hadn't it been for his heightened senses and took a second look at the girl. Irbis was looking at the tedious fields while mouthing the lyrics to the window pane of her door, her body following the beat of the song faithfully. "You can leave your hat on! You can leave…"

"Whatchya doin'?"

"Hun?" She turned sharply to the blond, who continued eyeing her critically, his hands still drumming the wheel. Creed could clearly see the searing heat exploding on her cheeks, making them handsomely red. "Uh… I was only… uh… It… Is a really nice music. I mean everyone likes 'Leave your hat on', right?"

"Likin' a music don't mean actin' like ya just escaped from a loony house." He grunted, enjoying her embarrassment and wanting to make it last for his own entertainment.

"Uh, pois. Eu…" She swallowed hard and tried to ignore her awkwardness, even if Creed could still enjoy the sight of her glowing cheeks. "I suppose you like de song too? I like _very_ much de voice off de singer, de way he says de letters more dan simply sing dem."

Creed gave her his best stone stare and enjoyed her uneasiness. But then she shook her head and looked at the landscape to the right, getting over her own shame with an almost unconscious shrug. "I like very much music. I suppose is one off de most important things in my life. I know Portuguese music very, very well, but only some more famous American musics, like Beatles, and Madonna, and Bryan Adams..."

"That would be singers, not 'musics'; 'sides they're British, American and Canadian, respectively, oh music-knows-it-all."

Obviously, the girl didn't take the hint. "Pois, eu quis dizer dat dey sing in English. Mas de qualquer modo, I learn dis music a long time ago and I really like it. And oder musics like... uh... 'simple things', 'you're so beautiful', 'have a little fais in me'... hmm... I suppose I just like Cock, in general."

"What?!"

Irbis looked at him criptically, while Creed just wondered when the girl would finally learn...

"I… I said dat I like de majority off de musics of Cock." She grimaced, and bit her lip. "Não, não, is not Cock... Uh... But is similar, tenho a certeza... Cock... Cock..."

"Cocker. Joe Cocker." He surprised himself chuckling softly. "Not cock."

"Ah, bolas, pois é." Irbis shook her head half-laughing. "Cock is de animal; de chicken male, right?"

Creed laughed, suddenly in a good, though mischievous, mood.

"What? What do I say wrong?" But Creed just snickered and told her that yupe, the male chicken was definitely called cock. At least by the Brits, it was.

Irbis didn't seem to buy it, but didn't insist either, and returned to silence. Creed switched the radio off, sensing a less aggravating entertainment in talking to the girl.

"Ya turned out a better driver than I thought. Where d'ya learn ta drive?"


	7. Tracked

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **7\. Tracked**

Doberman leaned on the wall, lifting a dumbbell while listening to Froggie and Stallone presenting their conclusions. A hand covering the north and west of the country ruled those lands out as being too far off.

"New York would be his first option," Froggie continued explaining, "he has two townhouses in Manhattan, one of which has been discovered by the X-Men, but he's probably got at least another hide-away in the vicinity. It's also where he has the majority of his contacts and suppliers. But, like I've said, he can't possibly be trying to get to New York because it's just too far to drive."

"He could take a plane," added Stallone, "but it isn't likely. First, he doesn't know if we have airstrips and airports covered, not to mention that, being on a short fuse because of the drugs in his system, he'll lose it and start killing with the least of triggers. It's pretty guaranteed that, right now, if he's not knocking at our door, then he's trying to lay low until he's recovered."

Doc agreed. The drugs wouldn't have a strong effect, but would remain a background nuisance that would keep him off-balance. Murdock nodded and glanced at the Colonel, who seemed as edgy as the mutant probably was. Froggie noticed the glance and tried to hide his own worry.

"As I was saying, his best contacts are in the New York area. However, a few have subsidiaries in other cities. Los Angeles and Las Vegas, for instance. We have no word of him owning a house in Las Vegas, but he does own a townhouse in the centre of Los Angeles, as well as a mansion in the outskirts."

The Colonel narrowed his eyes, focused on the pin marking Las Vegas. "He could get there quickly enough."

"It amounts to 730 miles. He could make it in less than 12 hours," Froggie clarified.

Stallone shook his head. "He's an animal, Sir; especially under those drugs. He'll want a safe lair to hide and lick his wounds."

"Los Angeles is 810 miles away; he could be there in 13 to 14 hours. But," Froggie moved over to the east side of the map. "He's got a closer hideout in Dallas, which is 770 miles away; 12 to 13 hours driving. There are no subsidiaries of his favourite suppliers there, but we have information on three contacts."

Stallone looked at some printed pages. "Larry Johnson is a small time gun dealer, and an explosive expert. Jerry Hernández smuggles people, guns and drugs across the Mexico frontier. El Guano is another gun dealer, but he mostly exports. El Guano and Hernández have access to heavier weaponry and in larger scale, but Johnson has a wide range of explosives, despite having a modest number of available guns at any one time."

"If he's planning on coming back here," the Colonel said somberly, "he'll want explosives. If he wants to wait for us or hunt us down, he'll want the heavier weaponery."

There was a moment of heavy silence as the Colonel decided on the best course of action. Froggie made eye contact with every man, one by one. The Babysitter had always been the weakest of the group, but keeping the numbers and watching over any locked up target didn't ask for a particularly strong element. Besides, he was a good man. Even if they hadn't liked the addition to the group, at first, allotting him the code name of Babysitter, Greg had earned their respect and friendship. They all wanted to bring the mutant down; the money would be more than welcome. But it was the woman they longed for. She would be paying for the torture and the death of Greg Wilson.

"What's the fastest way to reach Las Vegas, Los Angeles and Dallas?"

Froggie snapped into action. "Uh... Las Vegas... that would be northwards on the I-25, then westwards on the I-40, and finally northwards again on the US-93. Los Angeles would be southwards on the I-25, then westwards on the NM-26, I-10 and I-210. He could also turn northwards at Phoenix if he was bound to LA but changed his mind and decided to go to Vegas, instead. Now Dallas... northwards on the I-25, then eastwards on the I-10 and the I-20."

"They left the cave around 3 am; the old couple was killed between 4 and 5. That would give them..." He looked at the watch. "8 to 9 hours of a head start. Where would they be at this time, in any of those three scenarios?"

Froggie took six red pins. On the I-20 heading to Dallas, he stuck two, determining the fugitives would be somewhere between Westbrook and Abilene, both in Texas. Two more pins went on the I-40, between Williams, Arizona, and the Mojave Desert. The last two pins were settled on the I-10, between Tonopah and Quartzsite, both in Arizona. The Colonel looked at them carefully. "They've probably ditched the Oldsmobile, by now, and got something new."

Blue eyes looking intently at the map, he finally made up his mind. "Froggie, find out if any cars were reported stolen in a timeframe coincident with Creed's passage in any of those areas. See if there are any reports of murders, missing people or abandoned cars by the highway or in small local towns. Murdock, get the plane ready to fly. I'm going to access satellite radars and search the highway path to Dallas. Dobberman, Stallone, you're going to sit with me and do the path towards Vegas and LA. See if you can spot the Oldsmobile, either abandoned by the road or still driving. Doc, how is our ammo?"

"Packed and ready to go, Sir."

* * *

"Why are ya a low-self-esteem moron, girl? Or are ya just tryin' ta piss me off?"

Irbis swallowed and her voice waivered as she once more explained that "many people drive very much better dan I."

"Duh! Just 'cause there's better drivers around, it don't follow ya're a bad driver." Creed glared a bit harder at her mortified slump. "But if ya _are_ gonna play that hand every time I says ya're good at somethin', I advise ya ta think twice. If I says I think ya're good at it, then ya are. End o'discussion. Got it?!"

Irbis nodded a well-behaved, though unenthusiastic, affirmative. "Good! Now who taught ya ta drive already?"

"My uh... my padrinho, I don't know de word in English..."

"Padrino?" Creed asked in Spanish, quickly adding: "that'll be godfather in English. Yer godfather taught ya how ta drive, huh?"

"Yes, my godfader. He had dis friends dat had a private property and organised rallies, but only used deir cars, not real rally cars. My godfader asked a mechanic he know to help him and he adapted an old car dat he had to be a race car, and den he teached me how to drive and sometimes I participated in de rallies."

Creed lifted his eyebrows. "No wonder ya held yerself drivin' 'gainst those punks," he snorted in a low voice.

"I'm not very good." She shrugged, but then quickly added, noticing the mutant's glare. "Is because I never win any rally nem nada que o valha. Para dizer a verdade, I never went to many rallies, because my moder didn't like. And den, when I had sixty years, I started working during summer in a... a ganadaria? Is de same in Spanish..."

Creed growled, wondering when she would ever learn to speak proper English. Right now, the way she claimed 'ganadaria' was a word in Spanish, when the real Spanish word was 'ganadería', proved that even if he tried to speak to her in Spanish, it still wouldn't fix the problem of her deficient speech.

"Cattle farm," he spit out, predicting he would have to continue playing the dictionary for yet some time. "And it's sixTEEN, not sixty."

"Certo. Sixteeeen," she corrected herself. "De qualquer modo, I started work in de cattle farm where my grandfader António works, so I don't go to many rallies after dat. Em vez disso, I started to go to uh... touradas?"

"Bull-fighting," he snarled.

"Pois. I started to go more to bull-fightings. De ganada... quer dizer, a cattle farm had bulls dat went to bull-fightings, but o more important is dat dey had horses in de bull-fightings too. Dey trained de horses. My grandfader António is de best trainer off horses in anywhere, and I help to take care off de horses. Den I start to give some equitation classes... uh... classes off how to ride a horse."

"I know what equitation is, moron. Ya think I'm ignorant or somethin'?"

Irbis bent a leg under her and sat almost sideways on her seat, looking at him. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I don't know de word in English, so I invent a little and make a Portuguese word look English in de end. Sabe, when I talk wid oder people, dey don't correct me like you. So I learn very much English when I talk wid you."

He glanced at her, offering a surprisingly soft warning. "Ya might wanna get yerself another teacher, girl. I ain't got no patience t'put up with ya."

"Sim, I know," she shrugged and looked down at the gear stick. "But I don't want to make friends wid someone dat can give you problems in some way. I promised."

Creed's mood improved significantly with her words, and even his sleepiness, that'd been always at the edge of his vision, seemed to have been further dispelled. He could both smell and hear the truthfulness of her quiet assertion and he was pleased he'd given the girl a second chance, even if she was a moron and couldn't help getting herself into trouble.

"Ya're inta bull-fightin' then, huh?" Irbis shrugged a shy "a little", but the smile that spread through her face hinted at a different answer. Creed decided to find out what the real answer was. "Ever went out facin' a bull with a mantilla?"

"No." She bit her lower lip, while her gaze was re-living some far off memory. "Not real, adult bulls. Only de young ones, during de tentas. Tentas is…"

"When ya test the animals individually ta check fer their bravery and capacity fer bull-fightin' shows, I know." Irbis looked at him, enthusiastic interest shining in her eyes. "I happen ta like bull-fights. Don't miss one when I goes ta Spain or Mexico durin' the season."

The ecstasy filling her eyes rewarded his efforts. She was a fan, maybe even a die-hard fan of the sport, that much was certain.

"And Portugal? Did you saw bull-fight in Portugal?" A patriotic fan, too. "My favourite are de forcados. When I was small, my grandfader António took me to see boys learn to be forcados and dey had to face young bulls, and den catch de head of de animal against de body when de bulls go running against dem, and den catch de bull by de tail and group around the main guy, dat catches de head off de bull, to force de animal to stop. I know it doesn't look very hard when de bull is young, but is not easy. And sometimes dey practice wid more old animals and… and I even do it some times, too! And is... is..."

She sighed, enthralled with the memory; the emotions burning strong across her features. "You ever tried to face a bull like a forcado, Mister Creed? I have certain dat you will like. Is de best sing... de best thing in de entire world!"

She gazed dreamily through him, and Creed didn't bother answering. He faced death every other day; what could facing a bull offer as a challenge? Now facing a pissed off brown bear… He shook his head. The grogginess he'd been trying to avoid had returned to the edge of his vision, but he wasn't that much annoyed anymore. He knew that sooner or later he'd have to have another nap, but for now he just stated he'd seen some forcados, or suicide squads, at work in California's Portuguese community.

Irbis snapped back to the present and looked at him in awe. She apparently knew that Portuguese bullfighters sometimes went to shows in Mexico and California, but she hadn't been aware of the Portuguese roots of some of those events, nor of different traditions in Californian bull-fighting. It gave Creed a chance to set off on a lengthy explanation, even taking the time to make sure the girl understood the words he was using and could use them again in everyday speech. Talking was a better way of ignoring his fatigue than just sitting there, driving, while Irbis babbled on and on, because he had to actually force his mind to work, keeping it from slowly drifting off. As he explained how the bullfights were organised for religious feasts, he allowed her to quip in to describe those holidays, forcing himself to pick up the information she was giving instead of brushing it off.

"The main difference in California," he explained to her, expecting a die-hard fan's disgust with the escape to the tradition, "is that they put a Velcro coat on the bull, so banderillas are stuck 'stead o' driven inta the animal's back."

"A sério? Dat's interesting." And she unbuckled the seat belt so as to seat with her back to the door and look at him directly. "And you know if dey have uh… esperas?"

"Runnin' o' the bulls," he again translated. "Yeah, but it ain't that big."

Irbis smiled brilliantly. "I always go. My moder tried to prohibit me, but I always go. _And_ I have de… uh… cicatrizes?"

"Scars?" Creed wasn't sure he had heard right. "Skin marks from wounds?"

"Yes. I have de scars to prove it." She laughed, carefree, and Creed suddenly understood why she couldn't care less over him beating her: she enjoyed getting beatings from bulls.

"Masochist," he grumbled under his breath.

* * *

Stallone opened the tailgate of the tuned car and was greeted by the decaying stench. With a whispered curse, he grabbed the bodies and tried pulling them out of the boot. They were carefully packed, making sure that every little nook in the small boot was put to good use, so that arms and legs were broken and entangled, making the task harder than expected.

"Doberman, gimme a hand, here."

The tall black man approached silently and quickly had the three bodies sprawled on the dirt.

"Thanks. Start lookin' fer some id's, will ya?"

The mute thug grabbed two bodies and threw them onto the car's bonnet, before starting going through the pockets. Doc was right behind him, studying the bodies and mumbling markers about how long they'd been dead.

Stallone didn't like messy jobs. He was a sniper by nature – attacking with utmost accuracy from afar. He did his reconaissances carefully, planning as many courses of action and outcomes as possible, and then hitting them fast and hard. He was particularly at home in urban environments and considered himself a guerrilla mastermind; which meant he was behind the slaughter, not cleaning it or going through its midst. Rummaging through a woman's dark clothes, he couldn't help feeling nauseated. He hated having to deal with dead bodies. Killing them was great; getting up and close with their bloody or maggot infested remaints was sickening. Which was why he had voted in favour of accepting the job on Sabretooth, in the first place. The only thing he hadn't liked was not killing the dangerous mutant while they had the chance. Like the Colonel kept saying, the mutant was to be considered deadly until he was dead, and, if they asked him, until he was shredded to little pieces and burnt to ashes. But Torini had been adamant, and the fact most mercs didn't feel up to par to such task was what had made the pay so alluring.

Damn the money! They should have killed him no matter what. The only thing left to do now, money or no money, was to track him down again and put him to sleep. Definitely. Only instead of having eight weeks to hunt him down and choose the perfect place to attack, they now had about eight hours.

Dobberman signalled he hadn't found any documents on the bodies. Froggie hadn't either, and if they couldn't identify the victims, they couldn't tell what car the runaways were driving. The only thing they had to go on was one tuned car whose license plate had been taken. But it didn't really matter. If the mutant had had enough wits to change wheels as soon as possible, he'd have the wits to do it again.

"We got nothing here, Colonel," he briefly stated as both men re-entered the plane.

"We got more than enough, Stallone." The Colonel didn't even look away from the computer screen where Froggie was accumulating small windows of information. "He's heading to Dallas, no matter what car he's on. Moreover, he can cut off some travelling time if he pushes the tuned car he's got. We're 320 miles from Dallas, which can be made in about five hours, respecting the 80 miles per hour speed limit. Let's say he's making an average of 90 to 100 miles per hour... He could get to Dallas in 3 hours, 3 hours and half from here."

"Well, Colonel," and Doc entered the plane too. "I'd say those three were killed around 12, 12.30. Which means he would arrive in Dallas at 3 pm the earliest. Or much later, if Stallone is correct and he wants to lay low and avoid getting picked up by police radars."

"If he does keep to the speed limit," Froggie said, while Murdock started the engines and got them running through the sleepy motorway for take off. "He won't be in Dallas before 5 and we'll have plenty of time."

"Between 3 and 5, then," Colonel settled. "That gives us from 30 minutes to 2 and half hours, Froggie. It isn't plenty of time; but we have better make sure it's enough."

* * *

Creed had been sleeping since one in the afternoon, slumbering peacefully next to Irbis. As usual, though, he had kept one ear open for out-of-the-ordinary sounds, and his nose on the lookout for suspicious scents. None had disturbed his sleep. Yet, his dreams had been disturbed, since an awkward soundtrack, running in the background of the dream scenarios, had insisted on unsettling his thoughts. He hadn't been able to identify any of the melodies, but they had been omnipresent nevertheless. On the other hand, truth be said, the soundtrack hadn't been so upsetting as to wake him up; if anything, it might even have kept his mind from delving into distressing scenes while processing the events of the last 12 hours or so.

Eventually, the melodies became clearer as his consciousness slowly left the dream province and travelled back to reality. There was no music to it, in reality, only a voice that evoked some melody, surely and pleasantly. Finally, Creed breathed in deeply and opened his eyes. Irbis's voice became perfectly clear while his eyes noted the greater number of houses near the motorway. How far from Dallas were they?

Glancing to the driver's seat to see the time – nearly 3 pm – he finally realised what the girl was doing. Apparently oblivious to the world around her, Irbis was using the steering wheel as a keyboard, playing a tune while singing it in a fully self-absorbed low voice. Shaking his head, he decided that she was either bored to death or had had a mental breakdown.

He couldn't suppress a grin at the focus with which she sang Sinead O'Connor's 'Nothing compares'. The fingers outlining the melody with slow accuracy; her face frowning, scowling and grimacing to the strength of the emotion in her voice, harder and deeper than O'Connor's. It was quite the show, really! He studied her carefully. She had a nice voice… strong, well-controlled, expressive. And she sang as if she meant every single word, too. Creed noticed how she easily modulated her voice. "I can put my arms around every boy I see... but it only remind me of you" High pitch, low pitch; hardened, softened; holding back, letting go... She did have a very good control, indeed. Singing classes for sure, he reasoned, as he enjoyed the expression she put into the lyric.

Giving her full attention to the song as she was, she was oblivious to anything happening around her. Creed felt a strong urge to frighten her. Making himself more comfortable, he enjoyed the end of the song. Then he tried to guess the next one from the movement of the fingers. He failed, but when she started singing Edith Piaf's 'Non je ne regrette rien' he agreed the movement of her hands fit the melody. His grin widened with the passsion she put into the song, forgetting to keep a low voice. Two completely different voices, Irbis's and Piaf's, but as much as Piaf gave the song an unimmitable scale, Irbis gave it her own twitch. Creed didn't know what the lyrics were, but again, Irbis seemed to mean every word.

Pleasant. But not so pleasant as to keep him from blurting a sudden 'BOO'. With a silent gasp, the girl jumped in the seat and held her breath. The car didn't threaten a meeting with the ditch, though.

"Nice hand control," he complimented, with a mischievous grin. "Ya ain't been speedin' while I wasn't lookin', have ya?"

He had been very stern about it, before settling for his nap, because the girl had seemed adamant in overcoming the 80-mile-per-hour limit of the motorway by 200. "Ya can go up to 85, but no more. I don't wanna get the cops attention, ya understand?" She hadn't been happy, but had promised to behave. The bored sigh she answered him with attested she had indeed behaved.

"Pull over. I'm drivin' the rest o' the way."

A sign warned of an exit to Weatherford, which, if Creed remembered correctly, was about an hour away from his Dallas apartment. It seemed like the perfect place to ditch their current car and pick up another one.

* * *

Dallas came into sight, downtown's glass towers shining in the evening light.

"OK, people this is it!" The Colonel's voice rang through the plane and the five men straightened themselves up. "There's no room for messing up anymore. We follow the plan and, on my orders, Creed is to be shot down. Remember, the girl is to be taken alive no matter what, but Creed is still our main target. Keep in mind that you are not to approach or engage him unless I've instructed you to. Clear?"

"Yes, Sir!" echoed through the small space, eliciting a pleased frown from the leader.

"Creed's apartment is at Gables 3636 McKinney, in the West Village, with a view to Cole Avenue. So, we're taking surveillance posts at the Gables Turtle Creek community, which is directly opposite his flat. I want to know when he goes in and when he goes out. Whatever happens, we attack between 22.00 and 23.00."

The Colonel looked around. They were going to receive only a quarter of the initially agreed amount of money for killing Creed themselves, instead of leaving that task for Torini, but he wasn't about to risk his men's lives again.

"Let's get this show on the road, people!"


	8. Dallas

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **8\. Dallas**

Creed drove into the Gables community, where his apartment was located, and parked inside. It was only 4.30, and there was plenty of light, so a few residents got the chance to frown at his and Irbis's dirty and wrinkled clothes as they walked up to the last floor. The door opened into a clean kitchen, which was separated from the rest of the house by a long marbletop counter. Creed dropped the mail he'd picked up at the entrance on the kitchen counter and opened the fridge to get a beer.

Noticing the girl had stopped at the doorway, apparently analysing the white cabinets of the kitchen, Creed waved an impatient hand. "Close the door, dimwit!"

Doing as told, Irbis moved onwards, past a passageway directly in front of the door which opened onto a wide room divided into dining and living area by a set of sofa and armchairs aimed at a wide screen TV. French windows beyond the sitting area invited her to check on the balcony, but she didn't dare approach it. Instead, she walked gingerly towards the sofas. They were as dark as the furniture, but had a light green cover that matched the curtains, and which received some spice from red cushions. Standing in the middle of the room, she looked back, discovering a round dining table hid quietly at the corner. She could see the blond perusing the papers with light resignation.

"The bathroom is through the bedroom," Creed explained, not looking up at her. "The door to the left. There's a walk-in closet in there with some women clothes. Check if they fit you."

Irbis sighed, her body relaxing. He looked so… what word could describe the bulking figure going casually through the papers? Homely? She felt a sudden irrational heat colour her face and abruptly entered the bedroom, throwing the door close with a loud bang, which she regretted even before hearing it.

"I'm sorry!" She decided to warn the man, "de door escaped my hands."

The room had the same dark furniture, with the same light green curtains and matching mats. Once more, red cushions spiced the room. The mutant didn't seem to have been bothered by the banging door, but he wanted to have a shower, and he'd certainly be bothered if she didn't hurry to get out of his way. She hurried into the bathroom and found the door into the walk-in closet. As the man had said, there was an area for women clothes and Irbis couldn't help being curious.

"Well?" Creed walked in and picked a pair of jeans and a shirt, then went on to a set of drawers to get some underwear. Eventually, he looked back at her. "Ya gonna stay there gawkin' at me, or are ya gonna check if those fit ya?"

She could feel her cheeks burning and turned abruptly to ascertain the size of the clothes. Behind her, Creed finished collecting what he'd come for and left. Still trying to control the heat on her cheeks, she decided they were all too big for her.

"Dey are all too big, Misteh... uh..." The heat quickly returning to her cheeks, she entered the bathroom to see Creed stark naked and about to enter the shower.

He looked back, grumbling. "Figures! Get the money I left on the counter and go out t' buy some clothes then. I ain't takin' ya around with me lookin' like a beggar."

Her eyes were still locked onto his body, despite her inhuman efforts to look away, so she could see the movement of his muscles when he growled lightly. "Whatchya starin' at, ya moron? Get out!"

As she left the room, though, she could still hear him grumbling about 'darned amateurs'.

* * *

Irbis didn't take long. The ground floor of the residential area was mostly covered with shops so she'd been able to buy a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a pullover very quickly. She had also considered a jacket, but they were all so expensive, she had picked a sweatshirt instead. She returned hoping that the man would neither think she had spent too much money nor had bought too little. But since Creed was ready to go out, his hair still wet, he didn't even look at the lonely bag in her hand.

"Don't go nowhere," he said briefly as he took the sandwich she'd bought for herself from a Starbucks at the corner. "And I mean _no_ where."

Irbis stood in the kitchen for a while, listening to his footsteps fading away. Finally alone, she felt exhaustion set in. Neverhteless, she strove to force it away and went to the bathroom where she started undressing. After the situation with the Friends of Humanity, she had taken her Isabel Martins documents and placed them in the pockets of her jeans, while most of her money, as well as her Irbis documents, had been securely hidden inside a second pair of panties she'd put on while waiting for Creed, in Madison. She was very proud of her move; if she hadn't done that, now she'd have lost the documents Creed had given her and she'd have no money.

The bills were still humid from the swim in the lake, but other than that, they were in perfect condition. She counted them before putting them on a chair, near her new clothes. Five hundred dollars. Then she inspected both her sets of documents and placed them with the money. Finally, she picked up the card the black mutant with the M tattoo had given her. It didn't say much, just XSE in big, orange letters and three sets of phone numbers. No address. She sighed, then she opened the hot water shower.

Creed arrived shortly after. She called out, saying she was finishing getting dressed when she had just got off the shower, but heard him entering the bedroom and realised he wouldn't have any troubles entering the bathroom if he felt like it. Hurrying, she put on two pairs of panties she'd taken from the walk-in closet and adjusted the money and the Irbis documents carefully. Then she put on jeans and T-shirt. Suddenly, the man tried the knob of the bathroom.

"Why the hell are ya locked in there, girl?"

"I'm dressing!" She explained, zipping the jeans.

"I've seen plenty o' women gettin' dressed; so I doubt it'll be much of a shock seein' ya. Now open the damn door!"

And she did, as she slipped in the documents and the card. He moved onto the walk-in closet without a second look at her. "I don't want any locked doors here, unless it's me doin' the lockin'. Got it?"

"I'm sorry," she called quietly, to sooth him.

He came out holding two sports bags and stopped. "Why're ya standin' there? Ya need somethin'?"

Shaking her head in a nervous negative, Irbis quickly made her way to the living room, Creed hot on her heels. She stopped in the middle of the room, making sure she was on a spot out of the man's way first. The blond dropped the two bags on a sofa then went to the dining table, where four pizza boxes waited for dinner time.

"I brought ya a pizza," he stated while he picked up a box, opened it and sat down. Then he looked at Irbis, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, wet hair clinging to her face. "What's goin' on?"

"Hun?"

"Yer actin' strange," and he looked around, smelling the air for anything out of the ordinary.

Irbis's face reddened. "I feel a bit strange," she mumbled, looking away from the blond but daring to go and sit at the table.

He studied her, suspicious, but let it go.

"Meat pizza," she tried to sound natural, to dispel the awkwardness that insisted in remaining. "My favourite."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Then I suggests ya proves it by eatin' 'stead o' talkin'."

But she didn't feel hungry. She bit down a slice but her stomach somersaulted inside her and she set it down. Creed's eyes were on her. She could feel them as if they were his hand. She shivered and felt her cheeks reddening again.

"I'm not hungry," she spit out, irritated at herself.

"Ya haven't eaten since ya had that burger, in the mornin'," Creed explained in between bites. "Ya're starvin'; but the adrenaline o' the whole adventure is makin' yer stomach squirmish. It happens t'all amateurs."

She didn't answer, and the man finished his slice. She kept her eyes on the edge of the table, trying not to think about anything in particular while some stupid tears insisted on finding a way out. Irbis sniffed them away and looked at him. His golden eyes, trained on her, didn't surprise her.

"I'm not amateur, I'm prey." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "You said I have to choose if I'm predator or prey. I'm prey."

He smirked, amused. "Why? 'Cause ya're squirmish an' lost yer appetite? Don't be a dumb ass, girl. Ya kill an' torture like the best. Make no mistake, ya got a nasty lil' predator inside ya. Ya just gotta give it space t'come out."

The smirk became a grin, mischievous and handsome, and Irbis looked away. "Where do I sleep?"

"Ya can take the bed fer now," she could hear the amusement in his voice. "I'll kick ya out when I decide t'take a nap myself."


	9. Second Lesson: Ghosts and Nightmares

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **9\. Second Lesson: Ghosts and Nightmares**

Irbis opened her eyes wide in the darkened room, drinking the air as if she'd been drowning. Sitting up in the wide bed, she forced her breathing and heart beat to slow down. The bedroom felt cold, dead. An ambulance hollered by. Shivering under her frozen skin, she slid off the bed and carefully opened the door to the living room. Creed was there, watching TV with his eyes closed. He seemed utterly relaxed, but she felt certain he wasn't sleeping.

Standing in the doorway, she searched the living room with her eyes until she remembered she hadn't eaten. She still didn't feel hungry, but she stepped half-heartedly towards the fridge. Three empty pizza boxes were abandoned in the sink and hers, though stored in the cold, was just as she had left it. She stared at the box for a few seconds, before looking at the beer bottles. Finally making up her mind, she grabbed the box and two bottles then walked into the living room area. Sitting on an armchair, she placed one bottle on the coffee table and opened the other. A re-run of an American football match was playing soundlessly on the screen.

Creed didn't react to her presence and Irbis rebuked herself for being silly, since the man was sleeping after all. With a sigh, she relinquished her beer and picked up a pizza slice. Her stomach didn't complain at the food it was receiving this time, so she nibbled on. After finishing the first slice, though, she realised that the coldness of the bedroom had leaked into the living room and she gave up the food. She needed to dispel the feeling of suspended death so, not being able to switch on a radio or change the TV to a music channel and turn up the volume, she closed the lid of the box. Taking a deep breath, she focused on a melody – Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata was always appropriate for a nighttime depressive mood– and her fingers started using the lid as a surrogate keyboard. Recalling the image of a piano keyboard, each key in its alloted place and with its exact width, each key offering that token resistance she knew so well and eliciting that same perfect sound that vibrated through instrument and player alike.

"What are ya, a mimic?" Irbis looked up, startled, her breathing on hold. His eyes were sharp and attentive and she was once more certain he hadn't been sleeping. "Why're ya pretendin' t'play?"

"Hun?" His scowl reminded her he didn't like her moronic answers, as he called them, and she swallowed. "I brought a beer to you."

"Yeah, I know. I aint' deaf and I ain't blind." He picked it up and took a long sip. "That must've been a hell of a nightmare, if ya're still shakin'."

"I'm sorry. Nightmare?"

"Bad dream," and his voice hinted at some impatience. "I could smell the stench o' fear through the door. I can still smell it."

She held his cold gaze, feeling it warmer than the coldness surrounding her; its intensity driving out the death-like embrace. "Phantasms," she explained.

"Hmm. Everybody's got their ghosts." He looked away, and Irbis felt the threatening cold around her gain new strength.

"Yes," she called abruptly, trying to attract his gaze's attention. "but... but de majority off de ghosts... dey don't wake up people wid bad dreams, night.. uh... nightm..."

"Nightmares," he looked back at her, casually, momentarily. "And even if most ghosts don't wake ya up, they keep many folks up. 'Sides, the longer ya live, the more likely ya're t' get both types o' ghosts."

"Sim, I suppose yes. You have dem? Ghosts dat wake you up?"

He smirked, the tip of a fang coming handsomely into view. "I sure as hell've lived long enough ta earn them."

He didn't feel the need to look at her while they talked, Irbis realised, unless she said something that deserved his full attention. But what could warrant that?

"You don't look very old," she tried, and was rewarded by an amused set of golden eyes peering at her. The chuckle rumbling through his chest sent shivers up her spine and she embraced herself.

"No, I don't, do I? And yet I can remember livin' in the woods in Canada at the beginnin' o' the 20th century an' bein' old enough t'do anythin' I pleased." It caught her off guard and she remained motionless, feeling the warmth of the man's eyes, now that the amusement had thawed their ice. The smirk grew into a cocky grin. "Healin' factor side effect."

"Ah," she finally managed to react. But the man just shook his head and looked back at the TV, picking up the control to zap through the channels. Wondering what else to say, she grabbed the first thought that popped up.

"I play piano."

"I know," there was a renewed hint of impatience in his voice as he turned up the volume of a news channel.

"No, quer dizer, I play when I have nightmares."

"Which explains why ya keep gettin' up in the middle o' night, in Wausau, t' sit at the piano fer hours. It still don't explain why ya pretend t'play, like ya're some loony."

The man's eyes didn't seem interested enough to stay away from the screen for long, so she decided not to bore him with long answers. "I don't want to make noise to you."

"S'that why ya want the guitar? Ya figure ya'll be able t'make less noise?"

"I can take de guitar outside de house and play widout wake you up," she conceded, "but is not dat. De sound of de guitar is different… I learn to play when I had seven years, and I… Is a different sound. And some off my favourite musics are for de guitar. And… dey make de nightmares go away… during a little time, pelo menos."

He turned to the TV with a grunt of annoyance. She hesitated. The best course of action, right now, was to change topics, but there was a question she needed answered.

"People say time cures everything. Does time makes de nightmares disappear?"

"No." Creed zapped through the channels. "Ya just get used ta them, and once ya do they get fewer and more in-between."

"And when we get used... De pain stops? De fear dat makes you seeck?"

Creed found a news channel and raised the sound so slightly the people's voices could barely be heard. Then he took another sip and got comfortable. "No, they don't ever go away. But if ya're smart, ya learn ta use 'em. When ya need ta fight… when the odds are against ya and ya need extra strength, ya just turn all that inta hate and kick their asses ta Kingdom Come. Or ya can let it sink into yer bones and turn ya into a broken wimp."

Irbis looked down at the pizza box. She could barely perceive the sound of the woman on the news in the silence of the room and decided that, if the man could hear her thanks to his heightened hearing, then he must also be able to enjoy music in a level she couldn't. Feeling a pang of mixed sadness and jealousy, she slid another slice out of the box and focused on eating it. On the TV, a police officer was talking in the middle of a darkened road, blue and red lights flashing behind him; a string of subtitles referring to a gang of carjackers that had been caught, a murder in a residential, a beating of a jew, hate crime statistics, lynching of a human who had been thought to be a mutant due to a skin problem, mutant-related crime statistics, a chain accident due to heavy rain and hail…

"I cause you a big problem wid de Friends off Humanity," she stated quietly.

"Ya made a mess, 's what ya did. Fortunately fer you, I knows just where ta hit 'em." She sprang to attention even though he hadn't bothered to look at her.

"You know where dey are? Deir big boss? How can I help?"

"Ya can't," impatience once more dripped from his voice.

"But I caused dis, Mister Creed! I have to help of..."

"Ya have t'shut up, is what ya hav'ta!" His eyes shone with anger but she held them. "And if ya're such a dimwit ya can't realise I got far more pressin' matters ta fix – like those blasted morons who're tryin' ta kill me – then what ya hav'ta do is get yerself a new batch o' common sense!"

"You're right, I'm sorry. É só que…" Irbis took a deep breath. "I don't understand dis very well."

"S'all a question o' priorities, girl," he spit sarcastically, eyes on the screen. "First, ya handle the ones tryin' t'kill ya."

The cold embracing her again, Irbis closed her eyes and took another deep breath. "I don't understand de anti-mutant groups. Please," and she dared to touch his arm lightly to get his full attention. "Explain me about dem… I don't ask to help again, but explain, please."

Creed frowned, growling lightly, then glanced at his watch and grunted. "There ain't nuthin' t'explain! Ya got the Friends o' Humanity, which don't do nuthin' big these days anymore, while 'em Church o' Humanity and Purity are gettin' more famous and get all the hype. They're doin' some pretty smart recruitin' everywhere on account o' their visibility. They got plenty o' websites, rangin' from 'hope 'em mutants'll die off' to 'let's get some seriously mayhem goin' on'; so they do the recruitin' like any other terrorists, _and_ they also keep their members under control. Friends o' Humanity ain't as virtual, so they work on word o' mouth; not t'mention the local cells are far more independent and pretty much do as they please. Makes it much harder to guess how strong they really are, since ya got 'em lil' cells getting' busted every now an' then, but no idea how many are affiliated, even 'cause many folks that get caught goin' after mutants will claim they're Friends o' Humanity even if they ain't got no official contact wi'them. Hell, as far as most folks know, nobody's had no contact with the big bosses since their candidate got blown to smitherings…"

"Ah, sim. De candidade Creed." The man's eyes glared at her almost instantly and Irbis hesitated. She was pretty sure she had got the surname right, but she decided to use it to see if it would help her find what had upset him. "I'm sorry, is de name wrong? Is Candidate Greed?"

"Creed," he confirmed through clenched teeth, eyes still burning fiercely. "Graydon Creed. He created the group when he was still a lawyer with political ambitions, then cut off any connections when he became a presidential candidate. Their headquarters used t'be in New York, but even though they got offices all over the country, the headquarters fer the group got relocated to Salt Lake City."

Despite the ferocity of the man's gaze, Irbis felt more at ease now the night ghosts had been scared away. "Então, now you go back to… uh… dat lake from where we escaped, and kill everyone, and den you go to Salt Lake City and kill everyone too."

He growled as the eyes lost some of their anger. "Don't be a moron. The mercs are probably on our trail, if they ain't already here an' lookin' fer this place. And when I go t'Salt Lake City, all I'm gonna do is sneak in and alter whatever info they got on ya."

Her heart started beating faster, while Creed grunted and looked at his watch. It was already ten, a few minutes past actually. The 'but' was burning her mind and tongue but she didn't want to aggravate him just now, so she bit her lower lip and didn't say she thought his plan wasn't thorough enough. She had to think about how to break her idea nicely so that he wouldn't just dismiss her worries as a sign of dimwitness.

"Do you want me to do something? Prepare food? A drink? De bed?"

The glance he threw at her brought some unwanted colour to her cheeks, and she berated herself for letting the man bring heat to her face without any effort. "Yeah, finish eatin' an' get out o' my way. Ya're annoyin' me."

Her cheeks burnt harder and she gazed at the pizza box, opening it to get another slice. His eyes stayed on her though. "Ya're goin' up t'Newark early in the mornin' and ya're stayin' there till I finish cleanin' up this mess."

She nodded, not looking up as a way to avoid the man's eyes.

"Once I finish this, I'll take ya back t'the house and ya'll stay there. Fer good, this time. No more holidayin' fer you, girl."

She couldn't avoid the smile. "No more holidays," she agreed, looking up at his golden eyes. "Is too much adrenaline to me. Fight trainment is too much adrenaline, real fight is… And every time I go to any place is a fight!"

The man's eyes narrowed slightly and Irbis noticed she was smiling for him like a Cheshire cat. Looking quickly back to the pizza box, she ignored the renewed heat on her cheeks.

"Shit."

Irbis didn't have time to look up. A blast shook the ground even as Creed whisked her up. Ears ringing, she felt the man's strong embrace securing her safely to his chest and was barely aware they were outside and climbing up the wall.


	10. A Wall of Bullets

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **10\. A Wall of Bullets**

It was exactly 22.13. The room was dark and silent; the only light coming from the two screens Froggie had set up near the window. On the bigger screen, they could see the infra-red signature of two human bodies. One of them though, had a very low temperature on the torso area, signalling a particularly resilient vest. On the smaller screen, a graph registered the conversation going on in the house on the other side of the street, recording the man's take on the Friends of Humanity and the Church of Humanity.

"Doc, Doberman... are you ready?" The intercom buzzed a signal.

"And the Torini man?" The same light sound, an alternative to speaking, which might give the soldiers away, sounded at the Colonel's ears.

"Stallone?" The same sound repeated itself.

"Murdock?"

"The car's all set and I'm ready to follow."

The Colonel positioned himself, aiming his customised riffle at the balcony.

" _Once I finish this,_ " the vic's voice echoed in the room, " _I'll take ya back t' the house and ya'll stay there. Fer good, this time. No more holidayin' fer you, girl._ "

"Doc, send the Torini. Remind him to make it snappy: Creed can't smell you but he can still hear you."

" _No more holidays,_ " Colonel eased his breathing despite the hate burning through him at the sound of that voice. " _Is too much adrenaline to me. Fight trainment is too much adrenaline, real fight is… And every time I go to any place is a fight!_ "

" _Shit._ "

The bomb explosion was seen as a white flash that inundated the screen. It didn't bother Froggie, though, who had got up and quickly started disassembling the material. The Colonel saw the mutant burst onto the balcony with the woman in front of him and automatically shot his gun, hitting him square in the chest. A second shot, as he embraced the woman with one arm and lept up, razed his forearm; a third hitting him in the back.

"The mark is heading for the roof. I repeat: the mark is heading for the roof."

The Colonel shot the gun five more times before losing sight of the mutant, but only four bullets hit home. "Stallone?"

"Got him," the man's calm voice retorted. "He has corralled himself between some cars, Colonel."

That might prove a problem. "Give him space to make a run for the car."

The Colonel left the flat silently, leaving Froggie behind to clean up. The bodies of the owners had already been disposed of in a bedroom, so it really just meant taking all the equipment and making sure there were no traces left of their presence other than the bodies. Doc, Doberman and the Torini man should have rendezvoused with Murdock by then and the Colonel hurried to the van.

"Colonel, he's hotwiring a car. I'm proceeding to fire normal rounds for distraction and then shoot the car with a tracking device."

"Shoot two tracking devices," the Colonel entered the van. "Which gate is he exiting through?"

"He's going to drive through you! It's the blue Ford Taurus."

But he didn't. Looking through the side mirrors, Murdock warned them the target was driving against the normal flow. He started the car and drove down the road. Behind them, Creed had reached the intersection and had swerved to the left, into Blackburn Street. Murdock turned right, following the normal traffic flow until he could merge with Blackburn too. When they finally merged, Creed had already gone up Turtle Creek Drive, but since the tracker devise would be picked up by their radar in a radius of up to 3 miles, they weren't the least worried. However, less than a minute later their target pulled over.

"He's trying to ambush us," Coronel warned. "Get your night vision goggles on and be careful!"

Had it not been for the night vision goggles, the men might have seen nothing but dark masses of trees against a darkened sky. As it was, they could clearly see the many paths isolating the trees in small but sufficiently thick islands; and if they looked carefully enough, they might just make out glimpses of walls and driveways behind the wall of blackened greenery.

Dobberman was the first out, followed by the Torini man. The blue Ford Taurus was visible just a few feet away, driven nearly through two close-by trees to the left. Customised riffles ready, Doberman and the Torini swept the entire area, left and right, and advanced carefully. At the van, Colonel and Doc had readied themselves and were following the two colleagues. And then the Torini man fell.

Through the night goggles, they saw Creed's bulk materialise out of nowhere. However, and as predicted, he attacked from the right. Dobberman, wearing a particularly resilient bodysuit that protected his throat from the mutant's claws, was ready. He didn't have time to shoot him with the riffle, which was quickly hurled out of his hands as his target reached for his throat; but he had ample time to punch his right fist onto the other one's neck, setting off the mechanism of the modified gun attached to his wrist.

It was with great relief that Doc and the Colonel saw the mutant buck and let go of their fallen comrade. It was the perfect target for them and they were all too ready to shoot, but just as their fingers hovered over the trigger, already squeezing it, Doc fell to the side with a mute groan. The Colonel couldn't avoid glancing at him, so unexpected was to see his man down for no apparent reason, a hand on his head; so when he looked back at his target it was already too late: he'd missed his opening and Dobberman could only scream his last breath.

Nausea sickening him to the bones, the Colonel started shooting his riffle, his trained hand steadying the gun against his bloodshot emotions. Dobberman was dead; he didn't know if Doc was dead or alive... what had hit him? Creed was alon... No, the woman was with him. Again!

Murdock's voice rang through the anger: "I got the woman, Colonel! I got her!"

His gun ran out of ammo, but he didn't lose a full second to reach for the second. For a moment, before that full second was over, his eyes met the mutant's. It felt like an entire minute, but it was no longer than a heart beat. One moment he was there, struck and hovering over Dobberman's body like some monstruosity, the next he was gone. He had only shot him six rounds, but Dobberman's wrist gun carried the equivalent to four rounds.

"The vic's escaping, Murdock! Duck and let him through. I repeat: do not engage!"

The mutant was little better than an animal, at this stage. The rounds they were using were twice as loaded as the ones they'd used the day before. In the last minutes, he had been hit fourteen times, plus Dobberman's equivalent to four rounds. Even with partial protection from the vest, he should be on the edge of breaking down – his escape, instead of barging against his attacker, proved as much – and that meant he was thinking like a wounded animal, which hopefully meant not thinking at all. If Murdock did not represent any danger, if he didn't represent an obstacle to be overcome, the mutant would not stop to kill him but would continue on his blind escape.

"F***"

The Colonel lept forward when he heard the growl through the intercom. The scream, even though it made his ears wince, did not slow him down. He arrived in time to empty the rest of his load on the mutant as he, carrying the woman, dove into the creek. He wasn't even sure how many times he'd hit him, but his priority was with his men.

"Murdock!" He kneeled and his night vision goggles allowed him a full view of the man's maimed face. The fabric of his face mask had been ripped and torn and forced into the gawking wounds; an eye had been ripped out of its socket; the nose had been smashed. "Murdock!"

He was still breathing, and he managed to mumble that he'd come for the woman.

"I know, Parker. S'OK. We'll get you to a hospital and you'll pull through." He heard the other van closing in, Froggie's voice crackling at his ears. "You're gonna make it."

"She killed Doc," he muttered. "I didn't see how, but she swinged and... and Doc fell..."

Stallone was coming up to him. "We're gonna get you to hospital, now. OK?"

The sniper didn't say a word; he simply reached a hand below his colleague's back and raised him gently with the Colonel's assistance. They covered the few feet swiftly enough, and it was with great relief that the Colonel saw Doc standing up. He was leaning on the hood, a hand still on his head, but he snapped out of it when the three men came closer and he quickly opened the side door for the wounded Murdock.

"Creed's slashed his face," the Colonel stated, but Murdock was already climbing into the van, reaching for his bags to stabilise the colleague's condition. "Are you OK?"

Doc paused only slightly to look at the Colonel. He had taken off his goggles and mask, making the trail of blood from his forehead to the chin much too evident. "A stone," he spit. "I got hit with a stone."

The Colonel let him go back to his job, and went back into the trees, from where Froggie was emerging with the Torini man's body, the head threatening to fall off the body. Stallone was kneeling by Dobberman's body. When the Colonel got closer, it became clear how he had died: the mutant had plunged his claws through his eyes. He forced down the nausea – if he hadn't got distracted... if the woman hadn't hit Doc...

Together, the two mercenaries brought their colleague's body back to the vans. Inside the first, Froggie was assisting Doc peeling Murdock's suit off him. "Colonel, we need to drop him at the closest hospital ASAP."

He assented as he replaced Froggie in the assistance. "Have we got an address?"

Froggie punched some keys on the computer. "Mary Shiels Hospital is three minutes away."

"Froggie, drive them there, then meet me and Stallone down the Creek. He'll have to get off the water somewhere, and we can't waste any time." When the Colonel looked back at Doc, he paused for a moment. "After dropping Murdock at Mary Shiels', take Doc to another hospital. Make sure he's in top condition; no concussions or whatever."

Doc didn't look happy, but he didn't complain. Behind him, Froggie claimed that Parkland Hospital was about ten minutes from Mary Shiels.

"Stallone, lets move. Creed is going to look for a protected place to get off the water... and he'll need to get a new set of wheels, if he doesn't just lay low in some hole."

* * *

Dragging the unconscious girl behind him, Creed struggled to get off the muddy margin while remaining hidden amidst the trees. His ears were ringing; his nose either strengthened or weakened the smells around him; his vision was hazy; his fingers tingling; his mind half-shut. If it hadn't been for the vest, he'd have been out by now. What he needed was to stop, eat and sleep. The animal inside, however, claimed for blood.

With an annoyed movement he threw his burden on the dry ground. She was still out. Damn girl! If he hadn't been so pressed to escape, when she had gone wacko in his arms as he was diving, he might have done some irreparable damage. Instead, he'd just knocked her out. He wondered if he had caused any damage while doing so, but since there was no scent of blood coming off her and she smelt pretty much alive, there was probably none. He shook his head. He needed time to clear his ideas. And he couldn't stay there for long – the mercenaries would soon be on his trail. How many had he killed anyway? Three... Yes, he thought that was about right. Three dead... At least one alive, surely more.

Damn, he needed to think!

No, he needed to go after the darned mercs. Yes, now that they weren't expecting him; now was the time to strike. He sniffed the air, but he got nothing. Duh! They had never had any scent to start with. Darn the... but they'd be covered in the scent of death and blood, if they'd been cleaning the area. Yes, that was it! He had to get on them before they could clean that smell off them.

Creed turned to the water, intent on swimming up the Creek, but then he remembered Irbis. In a fit of anger he hit some random branches ahead of him. Taking a deep breath, he reconsidered his plan. They'd probably left the area anyway, no point in going back there. Then where...

Shit, he really needed to think... and to get rid of the girl. She would put a cramp on whatever he decided to do in the end. However, she was still out; he couldn't just say 'stay' and expect her to obey. Unless he waited till she woke up, that is. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could also use some time to shake off the worst of the drugs. Hopefully.


	11. Third Lesson: Independence or Death

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **11\. Third Lesson: Independence or Death**

She opened her eyes with a silent start and lunged forward, the strong scent of panic bursting inside the car. Holding her breath, eyes nearly bulging from their sockets, she slowly realised where she was – or wasn't – and her throat allowed the lungs to breathe out, so they could then inhale renewed air. Creed was in a bad mood, cold and wet to the bones, and waiting for an excuse to let out his bad temper. Unfortunately, the silent gasp the girl had woken with, and even the way her fear quickly dispelled once she had realised she wasn't inside water anymore, hadn't warranted that excuse. So he remained relaxedly on the seat, an eye on the girl and both ears on the world outside the car, arms crossed over his chest and no muscle wasting energy anywhere in his body.

Irbis looked discreetly around herself, her heartbeat still slowing down after the abrupt awakening. Eventually, though, she turned her head and looked at him.

Leaning on the driver's seat at a slight angle, he had only to direct his gaze to the side and he could watch her without effort. Disheveled and soaking wet, she was a sorry sight for anyone's eyes, but her own eyes seemed tranquil. A police car passed by on a nearby road, its sirens bellowing loudly; and still the silence inside the darkened car wasn't broken. Eventually, a discreet blush started spreading through her cheeks. Creed had noticed she had caught the habit of blushing on account of nothing but he hadn't yet thought about what might be the reason. Tonight, though, it grated against his irritable mood and he snarled. The blush intensified.

"I didn't kill him?"

Her voice had sounded breathless, and the light interrogative picked his curiosity.

"Who didn't ya kill?"

He noticed the blush lost some of its intensity as she tried to ease the silence into a conversation. "Two men had de guns pointed to you, and I... uh... I caught a stone and... uh... throwed... but I see de man fall when de stone hit."

She hadn't moved a muscle, her body now as relaxed as his, but the colour on her face strengthened when he didn't answer her. He couldn't avoid seeing the discreet swallowing that announced a new attempt at striking a conversation. Just as she had attempted at his flat, before the mercs' attack.

"Did you kill dem, de... de mucks."

Her voice had been even and soft, tame but not subservient; giving him no excuse to overcome the healing inactivity he had allowed his body to fall into.

She breathed out, almost unnoticeably, and the colour receded. Hugging herself against a shiver that made her entire body quiver, she set her jaws and glanced around her for a moment. There was a slight hint of resignation when she asked if he wanted her to do something.

He narrowed his eyes, studying the woman's face more closely, listening to the slowing heartbeat; and an odd thought popped into his still shrouded mind. He weighed it lazily, critically, and decided it might make sense. A lethargic grin pulled his mouth sideways, revealing one of his sharp fangs. The pupils of the girl's eyes focused on it and she inhaled guardedly, her heartbeat rebelling only faintly against her soothing intents.

His mood, sailing on the instability of the drugs in his system, steered away from stormy waters into a pool of mischievousness. He moved his head to the side, so that they could fully gaze into eachother's eyes without effort, and gave her his undivided attention. His gaze noted the diminute green spots within the browness of her eyes; the naturally thick, curly eyelashes; the deep, lightly arching eye-brows; the long, wavy hair; the big Hispanic nose; the reddish lips on the wide mouth; the stubborn curve of the jaw, set decidedly against the shivering that unsuccessfully tried to make her teeth clatter; the slender aristocratic neck; the publicly hunched shoulders now so privately straightened; the goosebumps peeping from under her wet clothes; her small breasts soberly visible under the drenched pullover; the deepening breathing that produced a pleasant swaying of those unassuming breasts. He returned his gaze to her eyes, suspicious and stubbornly guarded. Wetting his lips, he leaned towards her without breaking eye contact, stopping mere inches from her face. She seemed to have been transformed into a barely breathing statue.

Leaning a bit more forward, he broke eye contact and stopped with his lips at half an inch from her ear. She was scarcely breathing and he grinned, though she couldn't see it. He breathed in her scent, the black hair tickling his nose, and easily pierced through the unconvincing perfume of the Turtle Creek. It was unmistakenly feminine and intricate, a mix of hormones undisguised by aggressive perfumed products.

"Cold, much?" He nearly purred, and was rewarded with a shiver that shook her entire body, nearly causing their faces to touch. But she drew a sharp breath and strove to steady herself.

Intent on getting a stronger reaction, he dove deeper into her hair, though never risking skin contact. He quickly went over some light provocation that would snap her out of immobility. "Ya gonna feel so much worse when I starts teachin' ya how ta swim."

He had never thought of it before, but if he had, it would have been clear from the start that knowing how to swim was probably more important than knowing how to fight. So even as the girl held her breath, Creed decided he was going to teach her how to swim. How hard could it be? He'd just throw her in until she picked it up.

"I don't swim," her voice had been quiet but hard and Creed pulled himself back slightly, just so he could gaze into those stubborn eyes.

"Which is why ya gonna learn." He let himself be mesmerised by the provocative contractions of the black pupils. She held both his gaze and his proximity, obstinacy normalising her heartbeat and annulling all the colour that had crept onto her face.

"I, don't, swim," she breathed out, unaware of how teasing her determined whispered voice was.

He wet his lips and pushed forward, the tip of his nose actually brushing against her ear. He dropped the playfulness, though, his mood veering from the placid pool it had been at and into deeper waters. " _Don't_ provoke me."

Her lips had opened slightly when he started backing away, and the reaction he had wanted materialised when her hand caught his arm. It was cold – he could feel it through his own wet clothes – but it seemed to burn with electric current.

" _You_ provoke me..." a light hesitation, a muscle twitching a second thought, "I... just say a fact."

He snarled, his mood reaching dangerously deep waters now he had overcome his previous immobility, and she took a deep breath as the colour flushed onto her cheeks. She quickly looked away and tried to hug herself into warmth or dryness. Whether she had done intentionally or not, the motion avoided the need for the snarl to become a slap or worse.

"I've had enough of ya goin' nuts whenever I needs t'dive. Ya're gonna learn t'swim... the easy or the hard way, s'all the same fer me."

She looked up at him. Her eyes were moist but there didn't seem to be any threats of tears.

"I don't need to know swim. I go to Wausau, after I go get de guitar; I go to Wausau and I don't leave again. I don't stay in your way again... never." Her voice was even and quiet, unfaltering; and the promise of staying out of his way, which he knew she'd keep, steadied him against the irritation of seeing his decision opposed. "And I don't need to know swim. Tal como... like you don't need to know clean de house or clodes, or know cook. Is de same."

He narrowed his eyes and a hand captured her chin. The feel of her skin was cold and electric and he fancied she felt the same electricity. "Ya're afraid o' the water. So ya runs away from it... it ain't 'cause ya need or don't need t'learn. It's just ya actin' like a coward..."

The moist in her eyes intensified and even her breathing quivered, but again she strove to control body and emotions.

"I don't need t'know how ta cook. But I can cook if I wants to, or if I needs to. I can keep a house in good condition, if I choose to. I can do the laundry and the dishes. I can even sew... make clothes an' shoes fer myself. I can do it, if I have to. And believe me, girl, I do it every time I wants t'get away from this hell of a world. Ya know why? 'Cause I don't depend on no one. 'Cause t'depend on somebody is ta sign yer own death sentence. And if ya wanna depend on me t'save yer ass every time a swim is in order..."

He paused. As hard as she clenched her jaws, she couldn't keep the shivering from shaking her frozen muscles anymore. It was good she wasn't suppressing it anyway; her body wanted to shiver for a reason. The moist was still there, but her gaze was also calm and her body had fully given into his strong grip on her chin, offering no resistance.

"Why're ya tryin' t'act like a coward whimp when I knows ya're better 'an that, girl?"

She shuddered and blinked. "I... I don't want to depend..."

"Good," and he felt particularly good that she had given in so easily. "It's very important that ya're able t'be an independent woman when I ain't around, Irbis. If I got t'keep savin' yer life, I might as well get rid of ya. Yer services just ain't that good."

But then she swallowed. "I don't need to swim to be independent."

From her chin, his hand was suddenly on her throat and the grip had become a vice. "I've warned ya before: _don't_ provoke me."

She didn't say a word. She didn't have to: her eyes told him she would stand by her decision. He threw her against the door, breaking eye contact, and she was careful not to look up again. However, her face showed some degree of contriction that probably saved her life. That and the ambulance speeding up the street, which caught Creed's attention and reminded him there was much to be done before the night was over. Quietly, Creed pulled the seat belt. There was no sense in calling attention over petty infractions while on the hunt. Irbis showed her intelligence – wasted on such a coward who wouldn't even try to overcome her fears – by imitating him even before he could start the engine.

Soon he stopped by a hotel, Summerfield, where he had only stayed once, many years ago, before getting his apartment. As he stopped, he handed over to Irbis a bunch of soaked bank notes.

"Get a room. If anyone asks anythin' over ya bein' soakin' wet, just say ya fell in the swimmin' pool an' don't add _any_ details. An' don't go nowhere!"

"Yes, Mister Creed." Her voice was soft but strong and she quickly unbuckled. As she opened the door, though, she hesitated. "Do I get food to you eat after de fight wid de mucks?"

"Mercs," he corrected irritably. "No. I intend t'have a bloody feast tonight."


	12. Lose Ends

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **12\. Lose Ends**

"It's been over two hours, Colonel, and there's no communication on the police radio that could indicate Creed's presence anywhere."

Colonel massaged his forehead. They'd been following the road down the Creek but they couldn't find any signs of the target anywhere even though they were using both night-vision and infrared goggles. For as long as Creed was breathing, they were all as good as dead, which meant that to forego of this hunt was as suicidal as continuing. But no survivor of the last meeting thought of giving up, anyway. There was revenge to be served, as hot as possible.

"We're wasting our time," he finally decided. "He's hiding somewhere... Froggie, drive us back to his flat."

He was aware he was a bit distracted. Doc was bound to spend the rest of the night at the hospital; Murdock... Murdock might not survive at all. And he was down to two men. If he survived this, he would never again toy with any future target whatsoever. The moment they were targeted they were dead. Never again would he let a job get out of hand.

"The police are still at the location, Colonel," Froggie said, parking unconspicously away.

Stallone, who'd been silent ever since Froggie's return from the hospital run, left the back of the van and joined Froggie in the front. Colonel had the distinct impression that his whole life was slipping through his fingers. The worst thing was that his men's lives were slipping through too. He shook his head. 'Get yourself together,' he scolded himself. 'Think.'

They had just gone from hunters to hunted, and it was absolutely imperative that they recovered their hunter positions. He got up and approached his two men. Ahead, two police cars were clearly visible, but the firebrigade car had gone. Probably a long time ago, too: the bomb they'd set off hadn't been designed to start a fire, so the firebrigade wouldn't have had much to do at the scene except make a routine appearance.

* * *

If it hadn't been for the police, Creed would never have spotted the van. But the assholes didn't leave the area before three a.m., so he had had to spend over two hours waiting. He felt weak and angry, his whole body burning in a low fire of hate, half-numbed by the drugs racing through his veins. Drugs he knew wold stay in his system for far too long.

He had crouched down on a rooftop, growling under his breath. There was nothing to watch to the exception of the motionless police cars and bats flying impassively around lampposts. Once an owl screeched and flew across the sky. And then, quite by sheer accident, he noticed movement inside a van. It had been something utterly slight, but it was all he had needed. Well, almost everything: he had to wait for the cops to move out.

But as long a wait as that had been it was worth it. Feeling feverish, he approached the van. For a moment he might have been trapped inside one of his nightmares, especially the ones that were confused half-memories of other times. He hardly even recognised any scents. Except the scent of blood: that scent was strong and refreshening the moment he punched through the window pane and plunged his claws into a soft neck.

He ignored the yells, but he couldn't do the same to the guns shooting him. Fortunately, someone had to slide the side door open to shoot him, and Creed dived in. The impacts of the shots were nothing compared to the feel of acid running through his veins, his gut, his lungs, his heart. Vision red and blurred, he followed the trail of the bullets all the way home and wrang off all the fingers doing the firing, then he mangled off arms and an assortment of other body parts. When the silence finally set in, Creed felt a wave of nausea wash over him and he threw up everything his stomach had - which was next to nothing.

Finally, he staggered away from the van. Away from that street. Away from the open. His body was failing him, weakening with every step, but he could not lay down to recover before finding a safe place where he could relax and indulge in a self-repairing sleep.

Leaning on walls, he became aware of a walled garden with overgrown bushes. The wall was low – a ten year old wouldn't have had any trouble jumping over it – and, despite his blurred eyesight, he was able to ascertain the garden was a wild patch, perfect for someone to lurk within, unseen. Creed literally fell over the wall, rather than overcoming it. Lying on the ground, his body finally failed him. He was barely aware of sirens – couldn't even tell if they were near or far – but he felt as safe as possible under the circumstances.

* * *

Creed walked along the corridor, following Irbis's scent. He was slightly light-headed, even if he had slept until after one in the afternoon, and his vision despite not being blurred wasn't particularly clear. His ears alternately picked up low sounds and ignored them, and even his nose could only focus on a scent at a time. He almost wished for an adrenaline rush to overcome the drugs side effect, but what he really needed was a good, rare steak and plenty of sleep.

Eventually, he reached the door he'd been looking for and knocked. There wasn't an immediate response and he hammered it harder. The silence surprised him. He hadn't thought the girl had such a heavy sleep. A light sense of alarm upgraded the current capacity of his senses. The silence was general, which wasn't unnatural in a hotel in the early afternoon, deserted as it should be. He listened carefully at the door. He could distinguish nothing. Then he sniffed the air, carefully. Irbis's scent was unmistakenably there but it was faint, as if she had left the room hours before.

Creed's vision turned red and he quickly kicked the door in. He was welcomed by a sudden draft that waved the light curtains at him, catching his eye, and blew some papers off the desk to the right of the door. Looking to the left, he surveyed the rest of the room: the bed which hadn't been slept in and the door to the bathroom. His vision was still reddish and he didn't register the growling snarl at the realisation that the girl had left without his permission. The light white curtains were still waving to and fro in the arms of the draft, which was strong enough to wobble even the heavier curtains drawn to the side, and the movement kept drawing Creed's eyes. She had left through there, he decided. He hesitated under his anger; should he go immediately after her or should he eat and get some shut eye before? No; the frail wasn't worth running himself thinner than he already was. He entered the room and the draft banged the door shut with such strength even Creed started at the sound. Then, his heartbeat increasing, the card caught his eye.

It had been on the floor just below the opened window and the waving curtains had disguised it. But now they had fallen into growing stillness, the bright orange letters on the white calling card became suddenly obvious. XSE. He blinked, the natural conclusion having trouble entering his mind but slowly doing so nonetheless. XSE. The card must have fallen as the girl had climbed the groundfloor window. XSE. On her way to the X-Men.

A wave of sickness rolled inside him, scolding the incredulity at the discovery. Why should there be any incredulity? What was so unbelievable in the girl's treacherous attitude? Wasn't betrayal to be expected of her? As of anyone else. As for her promises... she had decided she wouldn't learn to swim, and still she had let him have the last word on the matter. She hadn't further angered him, because she would stand by her decision by taking off to the X-men's protection.

Creed closed his eyes and took a sharp breath. Exhaustion still hung heavily on his body, but his mind was clear, his senses back to full ability. Picking up the card and slipping it into a pocket, he sniffed the window sill carefully. Yes, she'd left that way. Her scent still had the dubious perfume of the creek and he knew he'd have no trouble following it. It only took tracking the perfume of the creek's waters, really, with its unmistakable mix of pesticides, algae and urban mud.

Leaping over the window, Creed followed the trail. At nearly half past two in the afternoon, the traffic wasn't particularly thick but it still tried to get in his way; still, he preservered. The folks going up and down, annoyed him less; they needed only look at him to quickly get out of his way, and their scent – heavy with purportedly pleasant perfumes and aftershaves, musky with their sweat and perspiration – didn't pose any threat of baffling his path. Time, on the other hand, posed a threat. Often, he moved on tens of feet without any hint of the creek's scent, to catch it fleetingly at a corner. Fortunately, though, he soon realised which way the girl had been heading: towards the Greyhound bus station.

He considered that choice as he went on, still carefully testing his theory at every turn. The Greyhound bus station. That meant she couldn't have phoned the X-morons to come and pick her up... or perhaps they had told her to get out of the city as soon as possible to get away from him. Avoid her death at his claws while they were flying to get her. No. If she had mentioned him, the runt would have wanted to come and face him, especially if she had told them he was in the middle of a fight with a bunch of mercs that had already caught him once. No. The station appeared in front of him, full of people coming to and fro. The guitar. She was going to get her guitar before going to the X-men. Creed grinned.

Entering the station, he wasn't the least surprised he couldn't pick the creek's or the girl's scent anywhere but at the counter. She had bought a ticket out, that much was certain. He studied the timetables. The earliest coach she could have got to Newark had left at 7.40am and would reach her goal the next day, late at night. Still the starting hour had been very late... would she have risked it? On the other hand, a coach heading for New York had left at 3am, and would reach the big city the next day early in the evening. It would be faster to get from there to Newark than if she caught the other bus. But would she think of it?

Creed shook his head, trying to think. The crowds were starting to get on his nerves and he wanted nothing but to rip some heads to loose some steam. He compared the two routes. The last stop in common was Nashville, and there was no way he could get there on time to meet any of the buses; so the only way out was to go after the bus for Newark, which had left later. If she wasn't onboard, then he'd go straight to New York City and wait for the double-crossing frail.

Now he just needed some wheels.

* * *

 _If you have read so far, please consider dropping me a line in a review. I would love to hear what you think of the characters and the plot._


	13. The Hunt

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **13\. The Hunt**

Creed was napping on a bench at the Greyhound stop. He had overcome the bus shortly after its stop in Cincinnati and had decided it made no sense to board it while moving. It would have been too much work for nothing – forcing the coach off the road with nothing more than his bike and his claws – as Irbis was probably not in that one and he wouldn't risk his wheels when he might still have much road to burn; so he had sped on to Columbus. He had arrived very early and parked his bike. Fortunately, the mercs hadn't thought of checking what wheels he had near his flat.

He had ridden the bike for over 16 hours to get to Columbus, and it was actually with some relief that he lay down for the nap. He was very much aware he wasn't in the best condition: his mind was groggy, his senses lulled, his reactions sleepy. The only thing still very much alive in him was his anger. Fortunately, his body wasn't in the mood to follow it, otherwise he might really have ditched the bike to leap onto the bus, then punch a window pane open and kill everyone inside. Irbis or no Irbis. And the natural outcome would have been trashing his bike and having to hitch a new ride. No. This option was much better. Not only his Harley was still in notch condition, he had had over an hour respite to nap some of the drugs off the system.

When the coach did arrive, a few minutes after 8.30am, Creed had got up and moved out of sight. He studied each person coming out of the bus and was pleased that he'd been right: the girl had been afraid to wait until 7.40 and had left on the first coach heading to the New Jersey and New York area. He didn't have any time to waste, though, and he was quickly back on his bike and heading to New York.

* * *

Her watch signalled 10.03 when Irbis got off the bus. A cool breeze was blowing lightly, but the sky was clear and blue and the air temperature was most pleasant. Slightly dazed, she walked gingerly about, trying to get her bearings. She had just spent over 24 hours in a bus, outside the several breaks, and every muscle in her body felt cramped. For the millionth time, she promised herself that never again would she do a long journey by bus. She walked around, trying to get rid of the rigidity, and searching for the blond giant she had expected to meet at the end of trail, waiting angrily for her. He had told her to 'go nowhere', his words, and she could do nothing but expect some kind of punishment for her disobedience. Unless, of course, he had understood her reasoning. Still, he'd punish her just as a matter of principle, she was certain.

After half an hour and no sight of the man, though, Irbis felt insecure. What if he hadn't been able to defeat the mercenaries? What if he had been too hurt to come after her? What if he had been in need of her help? Shaking her head, she reminded herself he needed – and wanted – no one's help. Finally, she made up her mind. She had no idea what the man was really going to do, so she had better not worry too much about it. She walked decidedly on to the public toilets.

There weren't many people inside, but Irbis hesitated nonetheless before taking off the pullover she'd worn in the coldly air-conditioned coach and entering an individual booth. She searched her bag for the pair of scissors she'd bought in transit and took a deep breath, then blindly hacked away at her long hair. When she peeked out, a woman was just leaving with her young daughter. She approached the mirrors and took a good look at herself.

The hair reached unevenly below her ears, giving her a quite different look. She just hoped it was different enough. She once more considered going to a hairdresser's and having it dyed, but she had neither the money nor the time for that; and dying it herself in a public toilet was definitely not going to happen. Sighing, she bent her head down to the basin and patiently soaked the hair, hissing at the splashes of cold water on her scalp and neck. Then she rubbed it with a towel and combed it down carefully, to try and even the cut. Finally satisfied, although not pleased with the end result, she took off her shirt, using it as a sponge to wash up the torso. Finally done, she put on a clean T-shirt bought a few stops before and left, hair still soaking wet despite the rubbing. It was only twenty-five to eleven.

* * *

It was barely past one when Creed left the diner hurriedly. Behind him, there were at least four bodies for the count. He wasn't sure if it was only four, as he'd been a bit blind while hacking; he was certain there were no beating hearts as he left, though. Shaking his head as he started off, he scolded himself. He had been able to keep himself in control, but the drugs were slowly slipping past his control and pushing him over the edge. If only he had been able to sleep it off for a few hours, but no! Irbis had to go and mess it all up. Again!

Swearing, he braked and headed back to the diner. It had just occurred to him that, if he or his bike had been caught on camera, sooner or later he'd be swarmed by cops and, while he had nothing against chopping a bunch of blue uniforms, he'd be particularly pissed if such a swarm kept him from reaching New York before Irbis. He would not be missing her arrival. Not in a million years!

The thoughtful insight proved correct. There were a couple of cameras at the lonely, roadside place, one inside and another outside, and he felt slightly less aggravated when he'd made sure all their recording was useless. As a plus, he got to slash a group of young yahoos who had arrived in the mean time, sporting hoods and an attitude. It was always a pleasure, acing smart-asses.

* * *

Irbis was hungry but adrenaline blocked that realisation from reaching her mind. Feeling cold in the air-conditioned waiting room, she waited, not sure what was going to happen next. She had played her hand, now it was their turn. Still, her stomach contracted nervously. She'd rather not die before helping Mister Creed fix the problem she had created, and before getting her guitar and, in the very least, playing a couple of pieces. However, it was too early to think about that. The guitar wouldn't be picked up any time soon, and Mister Creed... she had no idea where he was or what he intended to do.

The room where the men were was sound proof, and, in the middle of the oppressive silence, a moment of doubt seized her. Had they believed her? That she had fled from Europe, hunted by a group of mutants using telepaths to make people become pro-mutant? That she wouldn't tell them her name and origin for fear her enemies might find her? That she had been directed to them by an anonymous New Yorker who'd saved her life from a gigantic, blond, claw-and-fang-sporting hitman hired by the European group of telepaths? It sounded like a bad James Bond flick. Doubt sank into her heart and she was certain they wouldn't believe her. They probably had contacts in Europe and would soon know there were no telepaths working underground anywhere.

She looked up at the door, metal covered with a thin sheet of wood, and then around the closed, windowless waiting room. The walls were white, the lights strong and bright, the paintings were colourful, but it felt like a gas camera. What could she do to make them believe her? A small coffee table with a few magazines waited in front of her, the linoleum floor pretending to be more expensive than it really was, and the chairs breathed contemporariness over comfort. Irbis felt something click inside her and the doubts departed. There was one thing that would convince them she spoke truth.

Recalling the anguish and despair she had painted her story with, Irbis grabbed the cheap plastic bag she'd bought while travelling, to hold the T-shirt, the scissors and some packages of food. They had taken the scissors when she'd been brought inside the building, but she had kept a small plastic knife from a previous meal and which she had secured within a nearly empty package of cookies.

She looked at her watch. It was exactly 4.11pm. Then she picked up the plastic knife and weighed it in her hand. It was a flimsy little thing and she wondered if it would fit her purpose; on the other hand, it was the only thing she had which was appropriate. The neck was automatically off the option list: she didn't know how long the men would still be inside, and while she intended to be as realistic as possible, the jugular was much too risky. It left the wrists. She laid the little plastic teeth over the blue vein and applied pressure. She felt its bite against the skin, which didn't turn any particular shade of red or yellowish-white. It was uncomfortable, but not quite painful. Not yet. With grim determination, she pulled the knife. It was a quick movement, and there was a sense of burning, from the friction, just before the real pain settled in.

Blood emerged almost immediately, hiding the uneven cut in the skin. Nevertheless, it escaped lazily, the red fluid. Irbis laid the red plastic teeth over the shallow wound. There was a light pain, a mix of soreness and burning, which became a sharp sting when she applied pressure. She saw the little teeth disappear into the superficial cut and decided it was not enough. Supporting the hand on her leg, she added the weight of her body to the knife before pulling it again. It ripped more than it slashed, and the pain was terribly real this time. It throbbed and shrieked into her spine, mind and stomach; tears flowed to her eyes and blurred her vision. Terribly real it might be, but it wasn't terrifyingly real. It wasn't even near terrifying. Blinking to clear her vision, Irbis saw the cut was uneven and ugly, nothing to do to with a carelessly clean gash while slicing bread or peeling carrots. The blood had thickened and picked up a nice pace and Irbis wondered if she should further deepen or enlarge it. Maybe not. Who knew how much longer the men would remain locked up in their secret office... She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The wrist had become heavy and stiff, the tenderness of the wound spreading to the neighbouring flesh, the pain burning agonizingly up her arm. Her eyes had lost some moist when she had blinked, but she now led her mind towards the right thoughts and memories that would reawaken the tears.

The dark blood oozed leisurely but surely, encircling her wrist while searching for the southern most point from where to drop. Every now and then a tear would drop alongside, sometimes landing on the bleeding wrist, more often reaching the bloody linoleum. Irbis kept her eyes on the mesmerising wound and the pain that kept throbbing, and lost track of time. She didn't know how long she had been sitting there when someone came in, whether from the office or the corridor she couldn't say, and rushed to her side. She didn't know how many people had hurried into the dark waiting room, but she was slightly aware they had made a bothersome commotion around her. Someone had forced her to lie down on the floor while her wrist was bandaged, but she couldn't recall who – not even if it had been a man or a woman. She did remember the light slaps she'd been given – as irritating as the unending buzzing of a mosquito you can't see – and the blueness of a pair of eyes when her own eyes had focused on the question.

"Why?" Actually, it had been a longer question but the only relevant thing had been that word, "why?"

"You don't believe me," she heard her voice say as she struggled to remain distant and apathic, defeated. "You don't believe me."

* * *

During the eight hour trip into New York City, Creed's eyes had been kept open through pure, hot-burning rage. Once he did arrive at the crowded Greyhound Bus Station, he could thank the extreme weariness weighing him down as the anchor that had kept his rage from getting active too early. It occurred to him he hadn't lay down for a proper sleep in over 65 hours, and the couple of naps he'd taken, between one and three hours, hadn't done much in the way of a respite. Following his Columbus's movements, he parked the bike and found himself a nice out-of-the-way bench to lie down for the next hour or so. He was so drained he would have fallen into a deep slumber if not for the crowd.

Time blew by him swiftly, though, and less than five minutes had seemed to have gone by when the loudspeakers warned of the imminent arrival of the bus. He got up and looked at the watch. The bus was a few minutes late. Feeling a big groggy and definitely edgy, he remained where he was, glaring at the bus. When it finally stopped and opened its doors, Creed got up and stalked his way to it, though careful to keep out of the field of vision of those coming out. But when the last passengers had finished getting off and Irbis had given no sign of being amidst them, he started to loose what little cool his exhaustion had provided him with.

Pushing away anyone in his way, he entered the bus and sniffed the air, trying to ascertain how old Irbis's scent was. He still couldn't believe she had left before getting to New York, especially because the last stop had been more than four hours before, in Maryland. On the other hand, it just proved the girl was no brainless dummy and had tried to cover her tracks. However, he couldn't find her scent anywhere in the bus. For a moment he couldn't understand why, and sniffed around the bus a second time. No. Nothing. She had never entered that bus. But how? Had she left when they had exchanged buses? And where had that been?

When the bus driver got in, telling him to leave the bus immediately, he lost it. Seeing red of pure frustration at having been cheated, he lashed out. Then, blood still boiling in a berserker rage, he got out and ripped a new face on anyone standing in front of him.

* * *

It was half past six in the evening when Irbis looked at her watch. Two men acted like bodyguards around her, waiting for a special car that would take her to a secure location. First, they had told her once she had recovered from her suicide attempt, she had to stay hidden long enough to loose any pursuer, then she would be moved to a 'half-way house' where she would be prepared to start a new life. But for now she'd be taken to a safe house, while preparations for her disappearance were being conducted. Miles, one of the men at her side, would stay with her to make sure she wouldn't despair and try something stupid. She had promised them she wouldn't try to kill herself again; that she had just given up hope when she figured they didn't believe her and wouldn't help her.

The car, black and with tinted panes, looked like something out of a James Bond film and she felt anxious. Surely Mister Creed would have arrived in town and would have tracked her, right? Perhaps he was watching her even now... She looked nervously around, searching the faces of people going by.

"Let's go in, Mary. Watch your head, now."

* * *

The captain switched on the speakers to say it was 7pm, the skies were clear and wish them a very nice flight. Grumbling, Creed closed his eyes and did his best to ignore everyone else on the plane. It had been a miracle his berseker rage had been short lived. Well, not really a miracle. He was reaching the bottom of his strength, and even if that meant he couldn't think straight most of the time, it also meant he didn't have the strength to face any heroes who might have been nearby. Fortunately he had had a moment of lucidity near an open manhole and had made his way out while the cops were reaching the station. Although the workers he'd tripped over probably wouldn't call it a 'clean' way out. Not for them, at least.

Creed felt the plane's engines fire and ignored the tension on the fuselage as best he could. He never had liked planes. It wasn't natural, if you thought of it, to travel trough the air in a tin can that weighed tons. Still, he had travelled enough to have got used to it, and once they reached a nice altitude and the pressure levelled out he sighed and relaxed. He was about to have six full hours to sleep like the dead. Hopefully, it would restore some of his strength. Unfortunately, he hadn't had any time to eat before hopping on the plane. Sure, he could have taken a later plane and booked himself a room somewhere, but he wasn't about to press his luck. He had been clearly seen while mangling folks at the bus station, and not only might some heroes see the footage and come after him, the cops might get the brilliant idea of sending his description to the airports. Nope. He was much better off outside New York as soon as possible, and not doing any driving this time around. He'd reward himself with a nice rare steak after arrival. Hell, two or three nice rare steaks. Then he'd fix the situation with the Friends of Humanity – no sense in letting his safe house dangle in danger of being found. After that, he would take a day off to sleep himself to perfect physical condition. Finally, he'd go after Irbis, wherever she might be. He grinned viciously as he imagined himself forcing her head underwater until she was nearly half drowned, just so he could pull her up at the last minute. She would regret having double-crossed him. And, enjoying the thrill of his expectations, he slipped off into sleep.

* * *

It was a nice anonymous apartment. Not particularly clean, true; but not outrageously dirty. She had made herself a clean bed and then insisted on doing the same for Miles, who had been checking something or the other. He'd thanked her and then had said they'd get fresh groceries in the morning.

"In the meantime, we'll have to make do with some burgers."

He wasn't particularly friendly or unfriendly, just as he wasn't particularly chatty. Irbis forced herself to eat everything. She hadn't eaten much in the last days, and her stomach was too tense to feel any hunger or even to welcome any food.

" _Ya're starvin'; but the adrenaline o' the whole adventure is makin' yer stomach squirmish. It happens t'all amateurs"_

Mister Creed knew what he was talking about, and she made sure to ignore her 'squirmish stomach' and feed her body properly this time. It was still very early when she finished cleaning up, after dinner. Of course there hadn't been much to clean up.

"I'm going to bed, Mister Miles," she said quietly, before closing the door behind her.

The man was watching TV in the living room and she lay down on the bed. When would Mister Creed decide to do anything? Or had there been any problems with the mercenaries? She felt frightened for him. She wasn't in danger, after all. If the worse happened, she would simply have to go on living her life under the wing of the Friends of Humanity. No, if the worse happened, the other two – the sheriff and the young man – would see her and recognise her. And she would die. Now, there was something that couldn't happen; at least not before she got her guitar. She frowned. She was supposed to have arrived in Newark the day before. How long would they hold the guitar for her? If Creed didn't show up, she'd have to find a way to elude her 'bodyguards'. She shook her head. She was getting the cart in front of the oxen; there was still plenty of time for Mister Creed to show up.

* * *

 _If you are enjoying the story, please consider writing a short review. Just let me know what you like the most and the least so that I can continue improving my writing._

 _Thank you._


	14. FoH

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **14\. FoH**

By the time the plane landed in Salt Lake City, Creed's body had finally managed to get rid of all the drugs slugging thorugh his veins. Food and six hours of sleep had further improved his mood and he no longer felt on the verge of a berserker rage. So, even though he wasn't completely recovered, body and mind still asking for a decent hole to climb into and sleep, he moved in on the Friends of Humanity's headquarter with a fairly clear head. The fact he didn't have to think about Irbis just yet was another factor helping his clear thinking.

It was almost midnight when he evaded all the nifty alarm systems by entering through the top floor. Nobody ever considered forced entries from above. Well, most nobody. Apparently, Friends of Humanity were suspicious enough to have installed an alarm on the door that gave access to the terrace. Looking around for another entrance, his eyes noticed the fans of the air-renovation system. Had they been maniac enough to install alarms there too? A careful inspection awarded him a negative and he swiftly entered the system.

He didn't have much room inside the ducts, but he didn't plan on being there for long. Soon, he dropped down in the middle of a corridor. Now, which way to the big hush-hush secrets? He moved vigilantly on and then, as he was about to circumspectly turn a corner without being caught by the rotating cameras, he froze. Sniffing the air, he ascertained he hadn't been tricked. That was Irbis's scent. What on Earth?

" _But I caused dis, Mister Creed! I have to help of..."_ The memory flooded his brain all of a sudden. _"Explain me about dem… I don't ask to help again, but explain, please."_

Of course. She hadn't said she wouldn't try to help, she had just said she wouldn't _ask_ to help again. But... the card... Did she mean to contact the X-Men to come and get the ass-holes? Or... or what?! Taking a deep breath to once more clear his head, Creed waited until the eye of the camera was looking somewhere else then disappeared down the corridor.

Soon he found a waiting room where Irbis had been a long period of time. Curiously, there was also the smell of detergents and pharmacy. Paying closer attention, he found the scent of blood underneath it all. He frowned. Nobody had been killed, since the scent of death that would have hung in the air would've been unmistaking. And whoever had been hurt had had prompt medical assistance. It stood to logic that Irbis had tried to kill somebody but succeeded only in hurting her vic and being escorted out, for later disposal of. However, the scent of blood was stronger where she had sat – an armchair where her scent remained strong – which was also where the scent of pharmacy was stronger. So it was Irbis who had got hurt... but why would she be attacked and then given medical attention? Something didn't fit.

Deciding to leave the puzzle for later, Creed looked around him. The door with wooden panels over a metal core got his eye. The absence of a key hole promised a nice prize to those who dared – and managed to – cross it and he took a closer look. He could find a way around it, if he wanted; but he was rather put out by the materialisation of the run-away where he had least expected her and wasn't in the mood to waste time on subtleties. Studying the way the door was attached to the door frame, he realised it had metal bars entering the walls on all four sides. He wouldn't be kicking it in easily. Growling, he considered going around and entering through the window, however, it begged the question if the room even had any connection to an outside window. Such an easy entrance would make the bolts ridiculous, and since they had been cautious enough to predict a possible break in from above... He studied the walls. Taking a few steps away from the door, he scraped the white plaster with his claws. He was pleased to peel the thing and discover no metal core but wood panels and insulation material. It didn't take much to open a hole through it and discover the inside room had been panelled with metal, lead to be more precise. Fortunately, it was a thin sheet that Creed easily kicked in.

As expected, the room had no windows. The first thing he did was sniff the air methodically. He identified three different scents, men. One of them was vaguely familiar, although he couldn't place it. Then he went through the pictures on the walls. Graydon Creed, the founder, had ben awarded two pictures, whereas everyone else had only one. Creed studied their features for later reference. He'd need to connect them to a name and, ideally, to a scent. Finally, he sat at the desk and switched the computer on.

Naturally, the screen came alive with an immediate request for a password. Such a secure place would surely boast a secure network, which meant frequent password changes. Too frequent for memorising. Scanveging the desk didn't help much, but the locked drawer rewarded him with a bright pink post-it sporting a line of random characters. Perfect. He picked it up and smelt it. Now he knew who sat in that office most of the time.

kY4b4v22K1. The computer bipped loudly, warning the password was incorrect and please check if the the Caps Lock wasn't on. Creed frowned. Maybe the ass-hole wasn't such an ass afterall. The question was if the password was simply inverted; if a couple of the characters were purposively wrong, having to be left out; if it was inverted in groups of two or three; if it should be inserted with the Caps Lock on so as to invert the capital letters; if... If. If. If. How irritating!

He started with the obvious: 1K22v4b4Yk. Bip! Incorrect password.

Creed studied the numbers. What if the password had already been changed and this was obsolete? It had ten characters. It didn't seem too many, but it did seem odd that there were repeated numbers.

kY4bv2K1. Bip! Incorrect password.

kYb4v2K1. Bip! Incorrect password.

1K2vb4Yk. Bip! Incorrect password.

1K2v4bYk. Bip! Incorrect password.

Ky4B4V22k1. Bip! Incorrect password.

1k22V4B4yK. Bip! Bip!

And the network opened up for him. With a sigh of relief, he searched for the database software where their victims' names were listed. Soon, he was searching for Maria Irbis and bingo: there she was. It didn't have a picture, although there was an empty space for one, which was very good. He left the name as it was but changed the birthdate and state of origin. Then he swapped a few numbers from her driver's license and mixed up both the car make and the license plate. Finally, he changed the street name from Lily to Lotus and the door number from 5 to 15. He looked at the name again. Maybe he'd change it after all: Marty instead of Maria and Iris instead of Irbis.

That was it. Now he needed to find where Irbis was. For that, he decided to search the computer for a database with information on all the employees. It took him some good ten minutes, but he found it.

Every individual was associated with two different sets of identity and had two different emergency numbers linked. He guessed that each number identified a different procedure for disappearing into another identity, but didn't bother to look into it. Now, which employee should he pick as his informant?

Going through the list, emergency number 001 caught his eye. It was associated to a name without a second identity. Odd. He searched more names connected to emergency 001. There were a dozen names, and each had a letter in front of the 001. Curiouser and curiouser. He clicked one of the names – Jonathan Norman – and faced an address from another state. He clicked another – Henry Truman – and found an address for New York. Finally, a third one – James Birskin – had an address for Salt Lake City. Grinning, Creed checked the names and addresses for the entire dozen, actually jotting them down on the bright pink post-its. Those would be the current big bosses of the group. Of course they would change names and addresses after tonight, but who knows what precious information they would still warrant him.

Creed was about to leave when a thought struck him. Going back to the employee database, he searched for the most recent admissions. One had that day's date. Or the previous day's, since it was already past midnight. The name was Mary Olive. Such an inspired name! It had a picture of Irbis, though, looking thoroughly dejected; and little other information. Unfortunately, it had no emergency number or address. Creed deleted that record and left the building.

* * *

Irbis was wandering through a bleak dreamscape when she was shaken awake. Taking a deep breath and blinking hard, she was forced out of the bed by an arm. She didn't understand what was happening and, for a moment, thought Miles had been ordered to get rid of her. Suddenly very much aware of everything around her, she started wondering what had happened. Had they discovered she was the Irbis caught being nice to a false mutant? Or had they checked that her insinuations about Europe were false? Neverhteless, she didn't do anything that could be even vaguely construed as resistance. And it was just as well, because she had hardly decided she'd been discovered when Miles let go of her.

"Move!" And he picked up the sports bag he had brought with him.

So they hadn't discovered her yet. Then... The man didn't leave her time to think and once more grabbed her by the arm, nearly dragging her down the stairs and into the parking lot. Mister Creed! He must have attacked and they were relocating her. She obediently got in the car and buckled up.

"Where do we go now?"

Miles didn't look at her. No problem. Mister Creed had got her used to less civil behaviour than this. And trained her well, too. She didn't insist immediately.

After a few more minutes, though, she tried again. "Did dey find me?"

The man was driving, his lips tight, and she was aware he was both upset and nervous.

"I'm dead," she stated in a low voice.

The act was successful. The man huffed and puffed, then shook his head. "We're going to pick someone up, then we'll be gone. No traces."

* * *

 _If you are enjoying the story, please consider writing a short review. Just let me know what you like the most and the least so that I can continue improving my writing._

 _Thank you._


	15. Flushed Out

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **15\. Flushed Out**

Riding in the back seat, hands handcuffed in front of her, Irbis knew she couldn't wait for Mister Creed anymore. She would be dead, or way out of his reach, before he could get to her and her captors. Only she didn't have any intention of dying. She had to get her guitar first... and also find out what had held up the killer so long. She was pretty sure he had to be safe; after all he did have a healing factor that took care of a bullet straight through the heart. It occurred to her he might have been pissed at her disobedience and might want to wait for the last minute just to teach her lesson. Whatever. She wasn't going to wait for him, anyway.

The car was driving through a desert of darkness, so she wasn't sure what surrounded them. However, and remembering the landscape she'd seen on the bus, especially in the last hours before arriving to Salt Lake City, she guessed it must be the same rugged terrain, sparse plants and small bushes. It didn't offer the same protection a forested area would have, but the fact there were no lampposts anywhere provided an equally difficult to pierce cover. All she needed was to get some hills in between her and her captors. She silently sent a heartfelt pray to Our Lady of Fatima to watch over her that night.

She took a deep breath to calm herself. Her heart had started beating faster and her breathing had deepened when Miles, after an hour and a half driving, arrived to Fillmore and stopped by an unassuming house with a wide garden. Two people had left the house even before Miles could have killed the engine, and Irbis had been able to see that one was a grown man with a solid build, and the other was a taller but more slender young man, both carrying sports bags. She had known immediately who they were and had offered Our Lady a quick prayer that they didn't recognise her, although not expecting the good Lady to perform any miracle on her account. Indeed they had recognised her at once. Fortunately, they were in a hurry and had decided to leave the real questioning for later. Nevertheless, she had 'zipped her lip', as Mister Creed would sometimes say, and hadn't awarded them a single sound, not even when they had yanked her out of the front seat and kicked her into the back seat, with the young man riding in the front and the sheriff riding behind, next to her.

Her heart hadn't eased since then, nor had her breathing. Now, nearly two hours after their depart, she tightened her thigh muscles and danced a little on her buttocks. Then, with a sharp breath, she blurted out, her voice low and shy.

"I have to oorinate."

The driver asked an annoyed 'what?' at the same time as the sheriff boxed her head with a fist. She felt the impact but not the pain and knew she was about to go numb, as she used to do when Creed blew into a fury and kicked her unconscious. She was actually amazed it hadn't happened earlier and, for once, she welcomed the change.

"I can't stop! I'm going to oorinate."

Her voice was starting to change, loosing the edge and becoming flat, but fortunately they didn't notice it. For what seemed to be an eternity, they discussed what to do. The sheriff saying they should let her piss herself, and the driver saying he was not going to have anyone pissing inside the car. The void, cold and empty, enveloped her and she embraced it completely: it was her only weapon. This time, though, the void wasn't as void as it used to be, for at its very core chirped the cords of a guitar. So instead of threatening to crumble inside, the cold, alien mind that had took over her became harder than steel and diamonds and held her up indomitably.

The car slowed down and got off the road, and the sheriff got out. He pulled her out briskly by an arm but didn't let her get up. Instead he took off her handcuffs.

"Take off your shoes and your socks, and make it snappy. We ain't got all night."

She did as instructed, putting the socks tidily in the shoes, and the shoes neatly side by side. The sheriff, though, kicked them away and again pulled her by an arm. The tar was hard and rough under her bare feet, the earth both lumpy and sandy. She didn't feel any pain, not even when she stepped on a small tuft of dried herbs, but it didn't surprise her: after all she had grown up running barefeet, including over a peeble pathway. That ground offered no challenge. The only challenge was the men and their guns, and the steepness of the hills around her. Nevertheless, she tumbled and acted as if she had princess feet, too delicate for that barefeet ordeal.

"Hurry up already!"

There was a concrete division just outside the road, a couple of feet of earth separating the two. It was waist high and Irbis tumbled quickly towards it and, holding it with both hands, swinged her feet over it to the other side.

"Hey!" And the sheriff was about to follow suit.

"Privity," Irbis said quickly, tugging at her jeans, "privity."

"You don't deserve no privacy, you mutie-lover." He spit on her but didn't jump the division. Instead, he rested his lower back on the concrete division and pulled out a cigarette.

Irbis pulled the jeans down and squatted, forcing some urine out. The night was dark, the moon nowhere to be seen and a light cloud cover hiding what brightness the stars might have bestowed on the landscape. The concrete wall shadowed her from the car lights, which were pointed on another direction anyway, but she still managed to see the stones and rocks around her. She picked up a jagged one.

When she straightened herself, pulling the jeans quickly up and buttoning them, the sheriff looked back at her and barked a command for her to hurry. Then he turned his back on her and puffed on the cigarette a couple of times before throwing it away. The teenager and the driver, Miles, weren't even looking up at them. Her target just a feet away, Irbis threw the jagged rock as hard as she could and the man didn't even say a word. He just hunched forward and fell.

Irbis didn't wait to see it, though; she immediately sprinted away. It was too dark to see very far, but the hill was partially parted by a mini-valley, or better yet, by the bed of a small brook that rains had undoubtedly created. So she followed that path. Up and up, the feet carrying her over tufts and jagged rocks and sensing the upward banks surrounding the now-dry rain-brook bed.

"Dad!"

A shot echoed in the air, but Irbis didn't pay it any attention, nor to the second and the third. The teenager was bound to sit with his wounded father, unless the man wasn't too hurt and told him to get on with the chase; the driver was bound to go after her after trying to shoot her down. Fortunately, he didn't have a good aim... or perhaps Our Lady had sent the bullets astray. Irbis would have liked to look back and see if the man, Miles, would be more concerned over the wounded sheriff or her capture, but the slope was steep and she wouldn't divide her attention. Up and up, her feet carried her; body bent and hands ready to help thrusting herself up and up. And then the barrier was overcome and there was nothing but a pitch dark level path, guarded by steep slopes on each side.

It was not a dry brook-bed, she suddenly realised as the path widened, more dusty than rocky; it was a dirt road. Her footing suddenly made easier, she gained speed. She was aware that the earth was steep on both sides of the path, and that the path itself was not even – for jeeps, she thought – but wavered up and down. Soon, the path bent to the left, and she bent with it, then left again, and right. The banks of the path still steep like mountains. At a certain point she tripped over a bush, right in the middle of the path, and a few steps onwards she nearly didn't avoid tripping over another one. The dirt path couldn't be much frequented if the plants were able to grow strong and thick in its middle, Irbis considered, and strove to gain even more speed.

She could only hear her breathing and her heart, and nothing else – not even shooting – and wondered if the void was playing tricks on her senses. Her common sense wasn't suffering any tricks, though, and she didn't slow down not even to look back. She carried on. Every now and then, small rain-brook beds which had carved little valleys down to the dirt path she kept following offered alternative routes, but she decided to persevere. The main path allowed her to maintain greater speed and she couldn't swear by the others; let the driver, and perhaps the teenager, try and follow that same, easy to track path. Speed was of the essence now, not shaking off her pursuers. It was only when the path started climbing the steep slope of what seemed a mountain that Irbis slowed down. The dirt path must have been made on a dry rain-brook bed, she decided for the last time. When it forked into two not deeply carved valleys but nonetheless too narrow and steep for jeeps, she stopped and looked back.

Darkness.

She wondered if it was possible to see the road from her now higher position. If it were, then the fact there was no light anywhere, meant the car had gone or its lights had been turned off. Anyway, there was no light anywhere. Either she was being pursued without torches, or she wasn't being pursued at all.

Irbis sat down and took a deep breath. Then she closed her eyes and forced herself to pay attention to the smallest sound. The wind, blowing carelessly through the brush. Birds, calling randomly in the night. Ocasional yelping, perhaps barking, in the distance. But no human voices, no coughing, no steps. It didn't mean they weren't there, searching for her even in the dark... or with torches whose brightness she couldn't see from her position. The moon still wasn't out, and the stars were still mostly hidden by the light cloud cover.

"My Our Lady of Fatima," she whispered in Portuguese, "thank you for your help and, please, watch over me till I've reached safety."

Calm and confident, Irbis resumed her path up the steep slope. She didn't bother to think where she was going exactly; she simply had to get away from the road and move back to the city, or closest town. Wherever that was or how far it didn't matter.

* * *

 _If you are enjoying the story, please consider writing a short review. Just let me know what you like the most and the least so that I can continue improving my writing._

 _Thank you._


	16. The Final Hunt

We've got a mid-week bonus chapter. I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **16\. The Final Hunt**

 _Creed woke up in the backyard, under the cool shade of the pine trees. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, the air was mild, neither wet nor dry. Stretching, he got up and walked to his house. The aromatic herbs in Irbis's garden filled the air with its calming influence and he was pleased he had allowed the girl to plant it. He went to the kitchen where Irbis was humming some melody he couldn't place while preparing dinner and opened the fridge to get a beer._

" _Hi, Mister Creed," she said with a quick glance at him. "Is still hot outside?"_

 _He didn't answer and she didn't ask anything else. She had picked up the common sense of not insisting on starting a conversation if he didn't pick it up at the first hint. Instead, she resumed her humming, occasionally dropping a part of the Portuguese lyrics._

" _This fall's bein' hotter 'an usual," he ended up saying. Isabel turned her head to him, a bright smile as she claimed she was definitely not complaining. "Yeah, well, ya're gonna complain loud enough when the winter drops out o'nowehere with a vengeance. Ya should quit wastin' yer time on the piano and think 'bout settin' up a proper winter closet."_

 _She nodded, the smile having toned itself down._ _"Eu sei, eu sei... I already have boots._ _Big and very hot."_

" _Warm," he corrected her immediately.  
_

" _Yes, very warm. And I have two winter pants and a big, ho... uh, warm kispo. Espera, anorak, dat's what de woman said is called, anorak. But you are right. I need more clodes."_

 _He took another sip, feeling his stomach complaining. "Whatch'ya cookin'?"_

" _Special bolognesa," she said with another bright smile. "I put meat and real tomato, den I put mushrooms to make a difference."_

 _There was a knock at the door and Irbis cleaned her hands at the apron. Creed wondered who it might be but didn't leave the kitchen. He heard the girl's steps and then her cheerful voice:_

" _Mas que surpresa! I didn't know you were coming. It's so good to see you again!" She nearly ran down the corridor to the kitchen calling his name and Creed finally entered the living room area._

 _The front door opened onto a small hall that prevented any visitors from prying into the house, then a door on its left opened onto the corridor that ran straight into the living area, so Creed couldn't see who was at the door. The first thing he did see was Irbis's joyful face and then, crossing the hall door behind her, Logan greeted him with his six claws and a roar._

Creed jumped up on the motel room bed and took a deep breath. Then, in a sudden fury, he ripped the sheets and mattress apart and blurted into the bathroom. The water ran cold as ice over him but it calmed his irritation somewhat. Before he was done, though, he punched the wall hard enough to crack a tile. When he finally closed the shower, he felt a bit groggy, definitely hungry, and slightly cramped.

Drying himself with a towel, he returned to the room and looked at the watch. It was three in the afternoon. The blond grunted and shook his head. No wonder he was groggy and hungry, he had slept for twenty-six hours straight. He needed to eat, but first he did some stretching, testing every muscle in his body and deciding he was fully restored from the drugs and all the abuse he had taken. Now food was indeed the only thing he needed.

The sun shone brilliantly, though a bit too hot for October, as he walked into the restaurant. It was your run of the mill diner, nothing fancy about it, and it was nearly deserted. He ordered five burgers, three beers, four fries portions holding back on the salt and a good, strong coffee. It wasn't particularly tasty, but Creed never let such details bother his eating. Food was seldom primed for his particular taste anyway, especially the darned fries. Hadn't he specifically said to hold back on the salt?

A TV behind the counter had a guy talking about what Creed thought must be sport. He supposed he wouldn't be lucky enough to catch any news about the small plane crash the day before. It had probably already lost the public's interest: who really cares about a charter flight that crashes and kills everyone inside when there aren't any teary eyed families to show on TV?

But the mutant couldn't help grinning at the memory. He had conducted a very nice interview with James Birskin the night he had arrived in Salt Lake City, in what had turned out to be a close call. Apparently, a security guard had noticed his break-in shortly after he had left and put out the alarm. Birskin had been on his way out when Creed had arrived and put an end to the escape. The mutie-hater frail of a man had been too willing to spill his guts, though, so Creed quickly found that there were only three refugees in the mutant-human war to talk of in the area. One was the freshly arrived Mary Olive; the other two were two Wisconsins, father and son. All of them were set to be relocated that same night, because of the alarm. If anyone were to access airplane passenger lists in search of any fugitives, they would only look at local airports, so they were to travel by car to a far-off airport; Reno's airport, to be more precise. From there they would fly to some random destiny on a charter flight.

It was quite a drive, from Salt Lake City to Reno, and Creed knew better than to chase them on the road. He caught the first plane instead, and had still had to wait a couple of hours for his prey to arrive. In the meantime, he had been able to find the charter flight he wanted and board the plane undetected. They were all airborne before he had revealed himself.

Creed called the waitress and ordered a couple more burgers and fries.

"And make sure the darned fries don't have too much salt this time." If there was something he couldn't understand was the love for salty food most people seemed to have.

It had been another lucky strike, and he recalled the three men's fear, not counting the pilot. One of them hadn't been fully there anyway – the sheriff. His head was pretty messed up because Irbis had thrown a rock at him at close range, and the boy had been willing to say much to save his father. Unfortunately he hadn't known much. Miles had been more helpful, though he had required more incentive. The pair of father and son had been the ones to first identify Irbis as a mutie-lover, and the ones to break her Mary Olive identity. They'd been working on a big project that instead of targeting the all-powerful mutants and attacking them head-on preferred groping at the grass-roots of the problem. The little powerful mutants, their forgiving families, their embracing friends. Basically, they were organising one big data-base that could later be used for several purposes.

And Irbis? Oh, she had escaped, barefeet and waterless, out into the desert. They didn't expect her to survive for long, seeing as the day had been particularly hot for October, and the next days weren't bound to lighten up.

Creed had jumped, since he had taken a parachute with him, while the plane crashed. Then he had found that road-side hotel with an excuse for a diner. Creed counted a couple of bills and dropped them on the table. Now it was time to take to the road and search the desert for Irbis. She had been out there for 32 hours, and he supposed he might take another 24 hours to find her, having much road to cover yet. He'd be searching for her dead body.

xXx

The jeep was hidden from anyone driving through US-6 highway, neatly stashed away a mere 300 yards from the road, behind the hill that Irbis had run over two nights before. It had still been dark when Creed had arrived, and he hadn't felt like going out and starting the chase just yet. After all, he had spent some good hours driving before finding the spot of the girl's escape. But then the sun had risen and Creed had gone out of the vehicle.

It was rugged terrain, no doubt, the slopes mounting up and up until they reached several peaks in a crisscrossing which created small labyrinthic valleys. There was a reason they called it the Confusion Range, after all. Had she followed those valleys in the midst of the night darkness believing she'd be able to backtrack thanks to them later on, she'd be irremediably lost. But then again, she'd be irremediably lost whatever course of action she might choose. He followed her track easily. She had been running barefeet and made no attempt to disguise her tracks; when the slope had grown into a full mountain, she had dragged herself up and then slid down another slope to another valley, which she had followed on and on. Funny enough, with all the twisting around, she had been able to keep her course fairly northward, getting farther and farther from the road.

A baseball cap protecting his eyes from the sun and a backpack with a few bottles of water, the man took only an hour and a half to cover the 4 miles and a half that Irbis had taken an entire night to cover. The range of impressive hills overcome, the girl had stopped for a while. It must have been a few hours after sunrise, since she had hesitated before advancing out into a vast expanse of sparse, dried up vegetation that comprised the Tule Valley and then decided to take refuge behind a rock which had offered shadow for most of the morning.

Creed noticed the tired tracks that left from the morning shadow. She had abandoned it near midday, he decided, and carried on. Probably searching for another shadow. She had followed a battered dirt road and, reaching a crossroads, had chosen to go south, back to the highway, rather than north and the desert. She had never reached the highway, though. Creed had driven carefully and would have picked up her scent if she had. He followed the track for a couple of miles, up until an elevation which would have offered a nice afternoon shadow and where the girl had rested for most of the day. Creed didn't need any rest, so he continued following the tracks she'd made during the second night out.

The night should have been pitch dark, out in the desert, reducing the girl's field of vision, but she was smart enough to keep to the dirt road. Creed noticed that sometimes she moved away from the path, but then she'd detect the difference of what she was stepping on and would return to her chosen trail. Nobody could say that girl didn't have some brains, that was for sure. It was a pity those same brains hadn't kept her from getting in trouble at every corner.

Unfortunately for her plans, Irbis had thought the path continued straight southwards, while it really went southwest. When the dirt road got to a crossroads, her second, she had chosen to go what she must have thought was eastwards, while really going northeast. Creed looked around him. The highway wasn't farther than 7 miles south when the girl had unwittingly turned back. Bad luck for her. The sun hadn't reached its zenith and Creed pressed on; he didn't intend to spend the entire day strolling in the desert.

It didn't take him long to reach a third crossroads, this time at the feet of the House Range. She had managed to zigzag through the entire Tule Valley and miss her target. Judging by her tracks, she had been half-dead of exhaustion by then, although her feet weren't yet bloodied. He studied the dirt more closely. She had been moving pretty slowly, definitely covering less than a mile per hour, and had kneeled at the crossroads, drawing a crude map on the ground. He grinned. He remembered when Irbis's path had joined the south-bound dirt road, on the first day of her ordeal. She had clearly seen the mountainous Confusion Range she had just crossed standing to her right, and the far-off House Range to the left, the Notch Peak in the Sawtooth Mountain being particularly conspicuous. The map showed precisely those landmarks, the two ranges and the highway. Reaching a steep mountain-like slope she had quickly surmissed she was on the wrong track, going east rather than south. So she had taken the road to the right, hoping to find the highway that way. And quite right she was, for the dirt road did come close to the higway in the area.

Creed sniffed the air. There was next to no wind, barely even a breeze, so he couldn't avoid having to follow her track. However, and even though she had reached this point some 30 hours before, she had never reached the highway. He wouldn't have missed her if she had. Which meant her dead body was probably somewhere along the dirt road.

It was still early and he continued. Irbis had held out longer than the Friends of Humanity had probably thought; had she had any water with her and Creed was certain she might have made it to the higway and, maybe, get herself a lift somewhere.

Four miles down the road, her track veered left, towards a valley-like depression in the slope. The day had caught up with her, Creed decided, and she had searched for a shadow. Her body was in the mountain, then. The trail showed the severity of Irbis's exhaustion very clearly. Some twenty hours ago, she had been facing the second day of her escape without any food or water and she must have felt pretty desperate. Probably wishing she had contacted the X-men before venturing out by herself. Or regretting venturing out altogether.

It was nearly midday when he found it, the depression where Irbis had spent the day. She had survived that day, though. Creed finished a bottle of water and looked around him. Before entering the depression, it was possible to look left, towards the Confusion Range, and glimpse the dark road cutting it in half. He was eight miles and a half from his jeep and he wished there had been some strong wind blowing from the North that would have hinted to the girl's true position. Once he pinpointed her corpse, he'd have to go back and get his jeep first; no way was he going to carry her carcass around.

Creed entered the depression, studying her tracks, and was surprised by the snake. Irbis had been desperate indeed. He picked it up. Its head had been smashed with a stone and the girl had bitten its scaly skin until its bloody flesh had been accessible. Then she had bitten and pulled the skin away to leave more flesh available. He grinned, sniffing the air. Irbis was a survivor if he had ever met one; she was alive, somewhere in the mountainous range. And indeed, the depression held no scent of death a moribund would have left behind.

She had spent the day nibbling on the snake, having drank as much of its blood as possible while waiting for the heat of the day to diminish. Then she had cut across the planate instead of going down the slope and back to the road. Smart. Creed jogged on, looking forward to their meeting. She had been advancing so slowly, she couldn't be too far off, especially as she must be hiding from the day's heat – her third already – in some shadowy nook in the range. He smirked when he noticed she had lost precious hours, the night before, taking the wrong turn and then having to backtrack. He sniffed the air. Irbis wasn't half a mile away.

* * *

 _If you are enjoying the story, please consider writing a short review. Just let me know what you like the most and the least so that I can continue improving my writing._

 _Thank you._


	17. Fourth Lesson: Trust

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **17\. Fourth Lesson: Trust**

It was half past midday, and the sun was at its hottest. Not that 77ºF was terribly hot, but with no water and little shadow, it felt a lot worse than it really was. Creed advanced through the valley, cliffs rising everywhere, and trained his eyes on the shadowy nook he knew Irbis was hiding at. Walking as silently as his boots allowed him to – which was pretty noiselessly – he entered the shadow. Irbis was sitting, her back resting on the cliff. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, a pullover lying on her lap, and he realised she had cut her wavy locks just below the chin. Her feet were white with the dust they'd accumulated and didn't betray any wound, whereas a bandage on her left wrist betrayed an older wound that Creed suddenly understood had been caused by the girl herself, though he couldn't understand why she had played the suicidal brat at the Friends of Humanity's headquarters. Her face was tanned and filthy, the skin cracking around the mouth, the short hair dishevelled and dusty, her breathing serene, her eyes closed.

"Well, well..." And he enjoyed the jump that accompanied the interrupted breathing. "Ya're still alive."

Eyes wide open, Irbis's gaze fell on him. Unexpectedly, they betrayed no surprise or relief, only anger.

"Obvious I'm alive. You want dat I die, you have to kill me you." But then she frowned and the anger boiled into something else, almost murder. "You don't come logo because you think dat I die here?"

Had there been any sign of up-coming violence in her body language, Creed would have been amused; but the only promise of violence was in her eyes and her voice and that meant she wouldn't act unless it was to be a fruitful act. Not that she'd have the chance for that.

"Figured ya'd be dead whatever time I got here, so it really made no nevermind." He crouched in front of her studying her clenched jaws and her regular though deep breathing. "'Course after that disappearin' act o' yours, death is the least ya deserve."

"Hun!?" She frowned so hard, her face wrinkled into an ugly grimace, moreso because of the indignation seeping through her voice. "Disappear act?"

It ticked him. She knew damn well what she had done. "Yeah, disappearin' act! Waltzin' out, leavin', takin' off, goin' away, vanishin' 'nto thin air. That disappearin' act!"

Incredulity added to anger and indignation as she shook her head lightly. "Disappear?! I don't disappear; I leave you a note in de bed!"

That was something new; worse, nonsensical. "Why the hell d'ya put a note _inside_ the damned bed?!"

"Is not inside de bed; is in de top off de bed!" She was getting exasperated, but that was nothing compared to Creed's exasperation as he grabbed her arms and tried to shake some basic linguistic knowledge inside her head.

"ON top! It's ON! IN is inside; ON is on top of; on the surface of. ON!"

She fell backwards as he let go of her, getting up himself to take a step away from her before he lost the remainder of his temper. It didn't take her a moment to get herself together, though.

"Não interessa, c******! I leave you de note ON de bed. I explain dat... if you change de information de sheriff and de teenager are wid dem and dey know de true information! And if dey see de information is false when you change it, den dey go search me in Wausau because dey know the true information! So I go so dey can see me, or I can see dem, and you can see dem and kill dem!"

Creed was looking back at her, listening to her icy speech with a deep frown.

"But de bus is too slow and I think 'he ainda goes and stop de bus' or I arrive in de station and you are my waiting. But you don't appear! And I find de sheriff and de teenager, and dey want to kill me but you aren't nowhere so I escape, and _dey_ escape too because _you_ didn't come!"

Creed clenched his teeth. He wasn't about to take lip from the frail, no matter if she had been following sound logic. He slapped her hard, though not hard enough to knock her out, then clenched her throat in a tight grip; even if, naturally, none of it bothered her the least.

"Watch yer mouth, girl." It was securely shut by now, though, and it might have made more sense if he had warned her about her irritating murderous glare. "First of all, there was no note on the f****** bed. Second, I trailed ya all the way and killed everyone who as much as heard anythin' 'bout ya, whichever persona that was. There's no more threat t'my house other 'an you."

More than the threat, it was the information that calmed her glare. "No, I leave de note on de bed. Até a pen! I put de pen in... _on_ top off de note."

Well, at least she was using the right preposition now. He watched her as she closed her eyes, fatigue getting over now she had no more reasons to be exasperated. Then she insisted a couple more times on the note. She was telling the truth, he knew; but he was also very sure that no one had entered the room to take it. The room had had no one's scent but hers. How had the note disappeared then? He revised the whole scene in his head. There had been a strong air draft as he opened the door, he recalled, which had attracted his eye to the window and to the white card, beaming to him amidst the darkness of the room. Nothing on the bed had attracted his eye, and he was sure that a piece of paper would have. Perhaps the air draft had blown the paper off the bed. It might have been just strong enough... He hoped she hadn't written anything suspicious enough to warrant calling the cops, when the cleaning maids had gone in; or that they were all Mexican runaways that wouldn't dare to get the Law... maybe not even able to speak English well enough to bother reading it. Whatever. It was much too late to worry about that now, anyway.

Creed fished the card out of his pocket. It was actually a good thing she hadn't died; he'd have the chance to do her in himself, should she say the wrong thing or reek of the wrong feeling. Crouching closer to her, so as not to miss the smallest sign, he put the XSE card face up in front of her. She looked up frowning slightly, not understanding what he was getting at.

"Where did ya get it?"

Her frown didn't smooth away, as if she still didn't understand why he was making that question. "De man wid de tattoo give me because he wanted dat I stay and when I said I can't, he gave me de card for de case I change ideas."

"And why did ya keep it with ya? Why didn't ya get rid of it?"

She shrugged, the frown changing from loss to irritation.

"Were ya thinkin' o' callin' 'em?" That was the main question and both his voice and his glare betrayed it. "Of askin' fer their help?"

Her eyes shone with deep indignation almost immediately, as she took a deep breath of pure wrath. "I _promised_ ," she seethed through clenched teeth, "I die before I hurt you."

"People don't keep no promises."

"Maybe _you_ ," and there was plenty of revulsion in her voice, "are like _people_. I am not."

He struck her once, making her fall over, then got up. From the rocky ground, her glare was so murderously intense it impressed him.

"I make a promise. If you smell de true like you say, den you know I don't break my promise. You don't believe me?"

But again, her body language didn't follow-up on her glare. Even if she knew she was helpless against him, still he'd expect the slight slouching of the shoulders, the face slightly turned downwards, the clenching fists, the tensed muscles. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and further exposed her chest, her face completely turned towards his, her muscles neither relaxed nor tense. Perhaps the chin rising a bit more than usual.

Creed considered the girl and her stupid naïveté for a moment, his anger over her betrayal gone. After all, there had never been any betrayal or even intention.

"I know ya're sayin' the truth. And I believe ya mean it. At least fer now, ya mean it." She clenched her teeth and inhaled deeply. "Thing is, everyone means it when they make promises, but they'll all change their minds sooner or later. So, yeah, I believe ya mean it; and no, I don't trust ya t'keep yer pretty promises."

"I – am _not_ – people." Her glare became reddish, probably because there wasn't much water in the body for it to waste on tears. "Doesn't interest what you do and say, even if I want see you dead, I don't do _nothing_ to hurt you because I promise. Now and forever, and if I change ideas, azar! I still do what I promise. _Always_."

She was being truthful – irrationally so – and Creed hesitated.

"You're like everyone." She said with despise. "You talk and talk, but you don't respect what you compromise to do. Pois, listen good: if you don't believe dat I maintain my promise until I'm dead and after, den you kill me now. If I go to de X-Men and dey ask about you, I cut my neck but I don't say nothing. Dey can say and do anything. If dey torture me, I don't say anything. If dey promise take me home I still don't say anything. Nothing. Never. Believe it or kill me. Now! I don't admit dat I say something and you think is a lie, always a lie. Não! Believe me or kill me."

Creed blinked once, the intensity of her truthfulness had had an impact on him. She meant it with every fibre of her being and he could smell how intensely she did mean it. But it didn't make any difference. He took a bottle of water from his backpack and threw it down at her.

"Drink. We got some way t' go 'fore ya're out o' here."

She gazed at the bottle angrily for a moment, then she clenched her teeth.

"I don't need your water."

Her glare surprised him, even if she wasn't directing it at him. He had allowed her to vent her frustration so now she should be able to get over herself and act sensibly. If he remembered correctly, her promise had included obeying him. Maybe it was the lack of water getting to her. Dehydration tended to make people act in stupid ways. As if to prove his assertion, he noticed how she reached for a stone and weighed it in her hand. He was almost amused at the thought that she might attack him. Hadn't she just insisted that she'd never do anything to hurt him?

"Don't be stupid, ya moron. Ya're dehydrated... ya ain't careful, ya gonna end up dead at yer own hands." Then as to remind her of her promise: "Ain't ya supposed t'do everythin' I tells ya?"

She looked up at him as she got up. Those weren't the eyes of a dehydrated dimwit, as sunk and reddened as they might be.

She took two steps to the side before looking away, not betraying any of the dizziness even the lightest dehydration often provokes. Not betraying not even sore feet. Following her gaze, he spotted the birds perched on the cliff. Nevertheless, he kept an eye on her hand, judging the certainty of the swing when she threw the stone and hit one of the birds. She didn't look at him, keeping her eyes on the spot the small creature fell to, and then walked on to retrieve it.

Creed was almost mesmerised when she picked it up and wrung its head off, taking the body to her mouth and sucking the blood flowing from the neck. That snake had not been killed out of despair. His heart beat faster when she looked back at him, her lips blood red – no metaphor – and her eyes indomitably wild. She walked back to him, choosing her path carefully amidst the rocks and uneven ground.

"I have my... _water_." She stated when she got back to his side, the bird still in her hand.

Creed swallowed down. A sudden thirst got hold of his throat, his blood burning in his veins. She looked like a young, weakened hag, dusty and at the end of her physical strength, but there was no end to her inner strength, he was certain. Her eyes held all the power and energy her frail body didn't and he couldn't help inhaling deeply, tasting the strength of her scent, intensified by those days without a shower. Despite his taste for ampler breasts and wider hips, he admitted that her undomitable gaze was far more alluring than any body he'd ever seen.

"Suit yerself." He wondered how long she'd hold out before accepting his water. "The car's a few miles away, so we better start movin'."

* * *

They walked in silence. The pale earth had turned whitish under the sun rays, the dried up under-brush standing like dwarfish sentinels. The sun was at its zenith and, hadn't Creed wanted to break the girl, he'd have let her sit in the shaded nook until later in the day.

Behind him, Irbis walked slowly but determinedly. She hadn't asked for water and Creed knew she wasn't going to. She'd let herself die first. He couldn't help admiring the girl's strength: he knew that she would keep her word until the end, even if he would never admit it out-loud. But just because he believed her, it didn't follow that something wouldn't happen that would somehow make her betray him. Maybe she'd have to be tricked into it, but it could happen. It would. He stopped and looked back.

Irbis's short hair made her look younger, while the dark circles under her eyes made her look older. She was wearing the pullover, protecting her skin from the unforgiving sun, but her face was getting reddish. She didn't look at him as she closed the gap separating them, nor did she stop when she reached his position.

He grabbed a bottle of water from the backpack and took a long sip. The liquid had lost its coolness a long time ago since he hadn't bothered to bring icy water, but it still felt good to the throat. He put the cap on and took a couple of strides, enough to catch up with the girl. His hand clamped down over her wrist and she stopped, the frown she had kept on over the last three hours melting into naïve surprise. Creed suddenly realised she wasn't really angry any longer, just upset. He placed the bottle in her hand, not having to force it there as he had expected. Then he kept walking.

Irbis had stopped, looking at the bottle, so Creed had to stop too. The girl would have got too behind if he didn't. He saw her gazing stupidly at the bottle, then unscrew the cap and take a shy sip. After that, she took a longer sip, screwed the cap back on and resumed her walking.

Creed waited for her to catch up before starting walking again. Irbis got immediately behind, but he tried to walk slowly so she couldn't get too behind.

"I trust you."

Her voice had been low and for a moment he wasn't sure if she had actually said what he thought she had. She looked up to meet his frown and stopped a step away from him.

"I trust you," she insisted. "I trust dat you don't let anyone hurt me because I work to you. I trust dat you don't treat me bad if I don't do something dat you think is a provocation and I trust dat you treat me bad if you think I provoke you. I trust dat you... dat you kill me when you think I'm not... convenient. I trust dat you don't sacrifice you proper because of me, dat you prefer to kill me instead off having trouble because I exist."

She swallowed down, her voice wavering for the first words. "I trust you like I trusted de dog of my grandfader. Bobby was a bad dog, he bit people. But I trusted him because he only bit you if you touched his food or his house or his ball. If you didn't do dat, you could play wid him and he never hurt you. And I trust you like dat."

It was implicit she wanted him to trust her like that too. Her eyes were wide and her gaze intense as she handed him the bottle back.

"Thank you for de water."

Creed glanced at it, but her brown eyes held a greater attraction.

"That ain't trust."

There was a smirk at the corner of her mouth, which had a bit of bird blood clotted in a dusty mess.

"What is it?"

"A fact. Ya knew what made the dog play nice or play rough and acted on that knowledge. Facts."

He could hear her heart beat rising, and her cheeks grew redder.

"You believe in... facts?"

Her eyes shone anxiously and Creed held back a grin. He could play her game better than she could.

"Facts ain't necessarily permanent."

Her smile opened up unexpectedly and he frowned. "No. Is always de exception dat confirms de rule." Then the smile diminished and the intensity of her gaze strengthened. "Do _you_ believe in facts and deir exceptions?"

He hesitated. She knew the answer to that specific question as well as he did.

"Keep the water. Ya'll need it again 'fore long."

She was smart enough not to gloat, or maybe she had understood that, whatever he believed, it was none of her business.

* * *

 _If you are enjoying the story, please consider writing a short review. Just let me know what you like the most and the least so that I can continue improving my writing._

 _Thank you._


	18. Fifth Lesson: Monsters

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **18\. Fifth Lesson: Monsters**

Her intense gaze burnt through his body and fired it up. Long dark locks flowing freely over her naked shoulders, the woman's blood red mouth twisted prettily in a tempting grin. The blood dripped daintily from her lips to her tanned chin, and her tongue – the tantalising tip of her tongue – swooped over the lower lip, tasting the fresh blood and inviting him to do the same. Her brown eyes beaconed to him and she opened her legs, her body leaning forward, both hands slithering down her perfect stomach to rest on the rock where she was sitting, to rest on the wide space her legs had just vacated.

Fire coursing through his blood, his entire body alive and throbbing, Creed didn't approach the dreamy body. First, he was aware it was a dream. Secondly, as much as the face was the girl's, the body wasn't, not with those exaggerated breasts, those long legs, that elongated torso. She'd be a full 6 inches taller than the real thing. Thirdly, a river of fear separated them, strong and disheartening.

But the eyes were hers, strong-willed and mesmerising, ensnaring. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the stench of the fear separating them, and then forced himself up. He sat up before he had completely left the dreamscape, and once he opened his eyes to the darkness of the motel room he knew that particular dream was in his memory to stay. He looked at the twin bed a foot away from his and felt the fear pulsing from the girl's sleeping body.

Shaking his head, Creed inched backwards and leaned his back on the wall. What he needed right now was a good lay. He didn't recall most dreams he had, which were often just entagled memories not worth recalling anyways. Yes, he often recalled the sense of déjà vu, the pain, the fear, the frustration he had experienced in the dreamscape – or nightmarescape – but he hardly ever remembered the events or the actions that caused them. A handful of dreams escaped that rule of thumb, though, and Irbis now starred in two of them. He recalled that first one, which his pine scented bedsheets had conjured because her scent was mingled in them, while her brown gaze from the most recent dream nagged him.

Irritation bubbling up, he decided he'd go out and see if he could get himself an appropriate party-girl. The moment he swung his feet aside though, Irbis got up with a start, her breathing suspended for a couple seconds. She gasped and tried to quiet her pounding heart, then she noticed him.

"Ah, desculpe!" And her cheeks reddened even in the dark. "Sorry. I don't want wake you."

He didn't correct her. For a moment he was curious about her nightmare – did it include the water and the swimming that she dreaded so deeply? But then he decided he didn't want to know and got up. He grabbed his jeans and put them on. He heard her sigh then breathe out with decision, and he looked back as he grabbed the shirt to see her kneeling on the bed, her right hand fingers pounding the bed furiously and expertly, dancing left and right as if extracting a very definite melody from a piano.

"Whatch'ya doin'?"

She looked up and hesitated a moment. "Vôo do moscardo. I don't know in English... Is part off an opera but is played independent. Is very fast and difficult, so I can't think about oder things when I play. So is good to forget bad dreams. But I'm not playing well..."

The Portuguese moscardo was close to the Spanish moscardón, horse-fly. He couldn't recall any classical piece with that on the name, though. However, there was a famous and very fast piece with an insect name, the flight of the bumblebee, which he had heard her play before, and he supposed it might be the one the girl was talking about. Her hand was playing something else now, though; her eyes vacant. Creed finished buttoning the shirt and left, closing the door with a dry thud.

"I'm so tired of being here."

He froze. At first it sounded like a simple complaint, but the deep, low voice from the other side of the door included a very definite melody.

"Supressed by all my childish fears."

Creed recognised the song, but he had always thought those first verses had a sad tinge to them, not that revolted anguish he was hearing.

"And if you have to leave

I wish dat you would just leave"

Anger, really.

" 'cause your presence still lingers here

And it won't leave me alone"

He also knew that the singer, Amy Lee, had a mezzo-soprano voice, holding a wide range from low to high register; a very well controlled voice of someone who has had singing lessons, at times breathy, at times sharp, but always smooth and powerful. Irbis's voice was darker, heavier – a contralto. She had the same control, though, the same smoothness and power.

"Dis wounds don't seem to heal

dis pain is just too real

Dere's just too much dat time cannot erase"

Or would have if she weren't holding back, dropping a slight hoarseness at the highest notes. Creed had the sudden feeling that she could raise the dead if she let that voice of hers boom freely.

"When you cry, I wipe away all off your tears  
When you scream, I fight away all off your fears"

Her voice creacked and became hoarse at the points where it should flow freely and she instead lowered the volume, forcing it into husky nothingness at one or two points.

"And I held your hand srough all off dis years  
But you still have

all of me"

Creed opened the door silently and entered. The thing was that she wasn't immitating Amy Lee. Just like he'd noticed when she had been singing in the car, she meant every word. She sang them at her own pace, with her own feeling, her own anger and pain. She was looking down at the bed, at her hands playing the piano only she could hear, inside her head. A grin wormed its way onto his face. She looked like such a crazy nutcase. If it weren't for the intensity of her singing, he might have burst out laughing at it.

"You used to captivate me

by your resonating light"

Her voice recaptured its sharp strength with the calmer melody.

"Now, I'm bound by de life you left behind"

She sometimes closed her eyes, but mostly she seemed to be looking through her fingers, through the bed. Creed had actually caught some tears shining in the darkness, but not quite trickling down her cheeks.

"Your face it haunts

my once pleasant dreams  
Your voice it chased away

all de sanity in me"

She raised her head as she wrung the last two words from deep inside, teeth clenched with resentment, and opened her eyes. Her voice suspended itself and Creed couldn't help a chuckle at the shock playing on her features and that had stopped her very breathing. She stood petrified, looking at him, caught red-handed. And now red-faced.

"Ya were sorely out of tune," he said, mocking her. Not that it was a complete lie, at least not in the chorus, when she should have let her voice fly and instead sounded hoarse, failing even. Although her emotional state might also have influenced those few failings.

Irbis blinked, finally closing her gaping mouth, and the shock morphed into something else. However, it wasn't the hurt he had expected.

"I didn't warm up," her voice was a whisper but then she blinked again and shook her head to bring her normal voice back. "You're… sim, a terceira. You're de third person dat critiques my singing."

Her tense shoulders loosened up and a chuckle rumbled noiselessly through her frame. She looked into his eyes with an unconscious, deprecating smirk half-spread on her face. "Everyone always says 'oh, you sing so well', 'oh dat was perfect', 'you should be a singer'… Only my music teacher and my grandmoder… and now you. I stop singing in public because off dat, you know. I promised: I never sing in public again. Only to my teacher and my grandmoder and… Thank you for critiquing. Yes, dat was bad. _Very_ bad."

Creed lost the grin. He hadn't meant to be nice when he had criticized her. And why did she speak with that tense intonation, almost as if she had meant it to be bad? Why was she bestowing on him that gaze, so intense and passionate, so riveting?

"Quit yer thanks, ya moron!" His voice had become hard and hostile, causing her relaxed face to morph again, now into a picture of guarded seriousness. "Ya know I'm a psychopath monster who enjoys killin' lil'kids and old ladies. So quit the damn nice, friendly act once an' fer all!"

"What is sychopat?"

Creed took a step towards the kneeling woman, her back and shoulders having casually straightened themselves. "Psychopaths are folks who don't give a damn 'bout no one an' nuthin'. People who kill without regret. Animals, other people… they're all worth the same fer a psycho: an' they're worth nuthin'."

Despite the dimness of the room, he noticed the reaction in her eyes. Her lips met in a thin line.

"You're a sycopat," she said it in a low, husky voice and Creed nodded. "And so? I'm a sycopat too."

He was not in a mood for word games, and even less for mockeries. He closed the small distance separating them and grabbed her by an arm. "Ya're tryin' t'be funny, ya ass?"

There wasn't even a hint of apprehension as she continued. "Maybe you are more sycopat dan I, but…"

"No, ya ain't!" He shook her some to try and get some sense into her head. "Ya don't know what ya're talkin' 'bout!"

But instead of making her think twice and retract herself, her eyes grew incensed.

"I killed my grandmoder." Her voice was still soft, and Creed relieved some of the pressure of his grip on her arms. "And I was happy."

He was stunned. The slim arms in his grip were warm and unresisting, but he still let go of them.

"She had Alzheimer, but she didn't want to leave her house. I leave school and take care off her, but she don't want to… to lose her dignity. Her _independence_." Was she trying to make a parallel between the independence-loving grandmother and his independence-loving person? "So I study… I don't let anyone notice what I study… search. And den I kill her. I put a… a… almofada, raios… pillow. I put a pillow on her face when she was sleeping and I killed her."

"That's a mercy kill," his voice became less menacing, though still hard, under her passionate eyes. That damn intensity attracted him like a flame attracts moths. "It don't make no psycho out of ya."

"I killed dat man… in de forest when you… when we met. I was happy I kill him and den I saw you kill de woman and I didn't…"

"The guy attacked ya," he explained with impatience. "'Course ya were happy ta waste him! An' the woman didn't mean squat t'ya… ya were in a state of emotional shock, fer cryin' out loud. How the hell d'ya wanna feel sorry fer anyone dyin'? Nobody does when they're in shock!"

She didn't seem convinced. "And de people I see you kill, hun? De woman in New York?"

Creed took a deep breath and gazed at her for a silent moment.

"A psychopath don't care 'bout no one. Ya do."

A mocking smirk twisted the corner of her mouth briefly. "I care more about music and horses dan people."

"Bullshit!"

"Maybe I exaggerate a little. I care very much to my family. My friends. But de oders... Dey can all die." She shrugged. "De difference is dat you don't care so you kill… I don't care but I don't kill."

"Ya still ain't no psychopath." He was close enough to see the glint of annoyance in her eyes.

"I tortured a man!" She hissed, hitting her chest with a closed fist. "I feel _nothing_."

"Again, ya was in shock. When ya're in shock, ya don't feel… ya either freeze or ya act, but ya don't feel."

She shook her head and looked away.

"Look, girl, psychopaths are monsters, ya understand? Can ya kill kids and get a kick out of it? And don't bring up mercy kills or self-defense. I mean, seein' a kid hoppin' down the street an' just havin' t'kill it. Could ya do it?"

She nibbled her lower lip with her upper teeth only as she pondered, making their moisted redness glimmer in the shaded room. Her frown intensified and then she looked up at him. Her face was so close to his.

"Now, no. But maybe in de future." He growled at the aggravation. "I care less and less, Mister Creed. A sycopat is a monster? Maybe I'm not a monster _now_ , but…"

Growling harder, he grabbed her neck. But her hands came up to his wrist and he felt such a powerful shock burning through his body, pushing him towards those stubborn eyes and her red lips, that he flung her backwards and got up.

She looked up angrily, now. 'I'm gonna gauge 'em out,' he thought, but knew he wouldn't just yet.

"Everyday I feel less for people around me! One, two years… and yes, maybe I don't import if I torture kids!"

The sorrow behind the admition softened Creed's previous anger. The girl hadn't been mocking him or even aggravating him on purpose; she was as confused as she could get and she actually believed all she had said. She believed it beyond simple stubbornness.

He rested a knee on the bed to approach her and he grabbed her chin pulling her face until it was inches from his. She caught her breath for a moment and Creed's hand slid from her chin to her neck, and held the nape securely. She blinked, her heart pounding a bit too slowly for her present circumstances.

"Ya listen t'me, girl." She breathed in, shakily, and her irises grew wider. "Ya got hurt. Worse than ya realised yerself; so hurt ya stopped feelin'. This 'not carin'' ya're talkin' 'bout… it's just how it feels when ya're numb inside. Nuthin' else can hurts ya fer as long as ya're numb. That's why ya think ya can kill an' maim an' not have it all keepin' ya up at night."

His fingers snaked up, through her hair. "Ya can kill, yes. Ya don't lose no sleep over folks that don't mean nuthin' ta you, fine. But ya ain't no monster. Ya ain't like me. Got it?"

She blinked a nod and swallowed down the tears on her eyes. His fingers closed in a casual fist, pulling her dark hair and forcing her face upwards with a startled gasp.

"Got it?" His voice was harder, and he didn't let go of her until she pronounced an audible 'yes'. "Good. Now get back t'sleep. We're leavin' early."

Creed got up and turned his back on the woman, her scent full in his nose.

"Mister Creed." He stopped, a hand on the door knob, and looked back. Her eyes had regained their composed intensity and he wondered when they had stopped being simply stubborn to become soberly passionate. There was no smile on her face; nor even a hint. "I… you are right. I _don't_ want to hurt more. Is only dat…"

She didn't continue. Her voice was controlled but it still revealed the apprehension of what she had thought she'd been on her way to become, and the relief of learning it was not so.

"Ya think way too much fer your own good, girl. It gets all sort o' stupid ideas inside that stupid head o'yers."

She smirked and looked down. But then her eyes rolled up, so that she could look at him without having to raise her face to him, and the smirk faded absent-mindedly.

"You say I'm untuned because you want to irritate me."

Creed couldn't help the grin. She was smart, real smart; yet insisted in acting like a dimwit half the time. "Ya _was_ out o' tune. Singin' hoarsely. That ain't no way t'sing; not that song at least."

She lifted her face, the smirk completely gone, and her gaze shone so much more intensely he took a deep breath. "Say a song you like. I learn it… de letters and de music… den I play to you in de piano. And sing. Wid perfection absolute. Only to you."

Creed frowned but it didn't affect the girl's intense gaze, stubbornely serious. "Shut yer yap an' get back t'bed."

He closed the door with a bang and walked away from the motel. Irritation bubbling up and down his chest, he kicked a random stone. What he needed was to get properly laid to get over this ridiculous hunger flaming his insides. For crying out loud, she didn't even have half the womanly curves he liked on a woman! There were fifteen year-olds with a more feminine frame, moving like felines breathing raw lust, and yet it never meant _he_ would be lusting after them. After any woman. What did that twenty-year old have? Passionate eyes and blushed cheeks. It might be acceptable if he hadn't touched a woman in weeks; otherwise it was plain ridiculous!

" _Mister Creed._ "

His blood burnt harder even as he sniffed the air, searching for a club or a bar that might be open at 1 am. It was the dreams she kept sliding into. They were the ones firing him up.

" _You want to irritate me._ "

Yet _she_ was the one irritating _him_. Irritating him and provoking him, when he knew damn well the kid wouldn't give him what he wanted. And she didn't have to, anyway. Her job was very simply to keep his house ready for him at all times. Which she did!

" _Say a song you like._ "

His heart pounding inside his brain, he registered cheap perfume soaring in the night breeze and followed it. There was no sense in mixing pleasure and business with women: they see the two side by side and immediately act like they're one and the same. No. You just don't mix pleasure and business with women you don't intend to kill immediately afterwards.

" _I play to you._ "

He'd rather she screamed. Pain or pleasure; it made no never-mind. Both, preferably. He was willing to bet she wasn't a screamer, though. There were a few bikes parked by the bar, and a couple of women were puffing on cigarettes outside the battered down building. Irbis's stubbornnely blood soaked lips flashed through his mind. He didn't want _her_ anyway. He preferred screamers, either cowering in fear or begging for more, and he decided the two women were screamers. Or would be, one way or the other.

" _Only to you._ "

* * *

 _If you are enjoying the story, please consider writing a short review. Just let me know what you like the most and the least so that I can continue improving my writing._

 _Thank you._


	19. The Wedding

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **19\. The Wedding**

The plane landed shortly after 3 in the afternoon, and Creed stated they'd take a taxi straight to Newark.

"The moment ya get yer hands on that damn guitar, we get on our way back t'Wausau." Not on a plane though, nor in any other direct way. The misadventure with the mercenaries had inspired him to be a bit more schizophrenic when it came to his safe-house. And no, Irbis wouldn't leave the place ever again, as she herself had mentioned. "Don't lag behind, girl."

"I should have arrived last weekend," Irbis commented worriedly as she strove to remain at the blond's side, "I hope de wedding isn't today."

Outside the airport, the day was cooler than in Utah, but it was still warm, especially after leaving the strongly air-conditioned plane and airport.

"What weddin' ya're talkin' 'bout?"

"O Senhor Agostinho said his goddaughter had de wedding in October," she explained as she took off the cardigan she'd been wearing over the plain summer dress. "He was organising everything."

Creed didn't say anything else, opening the door to a taxi and prodding Irbis inside. He hoped the wedding-organiser would be smart enough to get them the guitar instead of leaving them waiting for the following day. Of course it might not be the wedding day just yet, and Creed hoped not. The last week had been busy enough and he wanted a break.

As they got off the taxi, though, in front of the greyish, unimpressive building of the Portuguese community hall, Creed lost any illusions. He, even if not Irbis, could clearly hear banging silverware, stomping feet and some shrieking whistling. However, the mayhem he was hearing could signal the end of the celebration – hopefully a noisy 'enjoy the honeymoon' send-off.

They entered and Irbis nervously asked for 'Senhor Agostinho'. The noise had diminished, allowing for the music, the talking and the laughing to be heard. The sound of the silverware on the plates, allied to the smell of food, indicated that the party wasn't over yet, as Creed had hoped.

They sat and waited for a few minutes, Irbis rubbing her hands nervously.

"Stop it! Or are ya 'fraid I might kill everyone in there?"

She looked at him and sighed. "No. I'm afraid... I'm afraid de guitar isn't here yet."

"What? Didn't ya say it should be here in late September?"

Irbis's brown eyes turned to him, apprehension shading them. "Yes, but... what if something happen?"

An explosion of noise – silverware, stomping feet, whistling – stopped him from answering the girl's stupid worries. Irbis noticed his wondering frown.

"Dey want de... os noivos... de couple dat married... dey want dem to kiss." Laughing and clapping drowned the demanding noise, but it was temporary. "Ah, olhe. Listen what dey say: dey want de parents off de couple to kiss now."

Creed grumbled. "Great. It's a darned orgy."

She chuckled just as a man entered the corridor where they were sitting. "Well, well, Antonieta. I was expecting you last weekend."

Irbis jumped off her seat and Creed studied the man. He was well dressed, his brown eyes shining with cheer and alcohol, and his smile spread from ear to ear. Perhaps it wouldn't be too difficult to get the guitar.

"But what happened to you? You're full of bruises!"

"Ah," and Irbis didn't avoid the man's eyes as she lied. "My car was stopped. Carjacking. Didn't end very good…"

The smile disappeared immediately and he walked up to the girl talking in Portuguese, a worried hand cupping a shoulder. He heard the word 'guitarra' and the man shook his head. Creed frowned, but the man was smiling and insisted with Irbis. She nodded lightly towards him and the man seemed to notice him for the first time.

"Hello, mister…"

"Creed," he stated roughly.

"Yes, I was just telling your friend: you must both go in and join the party. I insist. It's my goddaughter's wedding day, and I won't admit that you two came all the way here and are only going to take the guitar and run off. No, no! You come in, now, and I'll get you two a place to sit." He was already turning his back and walking towards the hall, but Creed didn't really mind having a snack – the plane lunch had been nearly unedible. "I'm afraid you missed lunch – they're just finishing the dessert – but we can still arrange something for you to snack on."

* * *

Sitting at a round table near a wall enjoying his meal, Creed surveyed the reception Hall. Its mostly white walls with blue and white tile panels representing historical motives were tall and gave the salon a grandiose feeling, in sharp contrast with the ordinary looking exterior. It was also spacious, even with the tens of tables which had sat groups of eight during the long wedding lunch. And long it must have been – his meal took one hour exactly and a new plate was brought immediately after he finished cleaning one. He had been offered seafood soup, which he had thought was a poor choice for an entry even if it was deliciously rich, and Irbis had had the nerve of chuckling and saying no, it wasn't an entry, that they usually served the entries only while the guests were taking photos, not at the table. Then they'd brought cod grilled on coals. And then pork with clams. And then melon with ham. And the pie for the dessert. Finally, they'd brought him coffee and a tray of drinks to choose from. He was so full, when he lit a cigar to accompany the digestive whisky, that just watching the people dancing was enough exercise.

Creed took a long puff from his cigar and eyed the band critically. The two men had just arrived when Agostinho had led them in, everyone leaving the tables, the waiters clearing them prior to moving them closer together so as to enlarge the dance floor, a CD playing background noise under the guise of Chapel of Love, As long as you love me, the Power of Love and anything else with love in the title. It would have surely messed his digestion if the two guys – one on the keyboard the other at the micro – hadn't killed the CD and started the show. Only they'd started with an assortment of waltzes that had really been better off played from a CD. And then – he had already finished his soup and started on the fish – then the singer had showed his true singing gift with Can you feel the love tonight. Enough to make good food go sour.

They'd been playing non stop since then, mixing quaint back-country songs, with tacky foreign folk songs, and soppy love songs. Whether the rhythm was upbeat or slow, the floor dance was always packing, with kids running amok from stage to dance floor to tag games between the table legs, and back to stage again.

"Is a good band," Irbis said casually, having also finished her meal and having just poured a tumbler of Porto wine for herself.

"Ya gotta be kiddin'! _That_ 's a good band fer you?! I got a better voice when I'm hoarse."

She looked up at him, a slight frown. "His voice isn't strong or powerful, but is nice and he controls well. He doesn't try sing notes his voice can't produce. And in a wedding off dis category... yes, dat's a good band."

" _This_ category?" He puffed the cigar and finally looked at her, giving her his undivided attention. "An' what category is that, huh? 'Cause with all this food they piled on us, I was startin' t' think this was aimin' at a queen's weddin' category."

"A wedding always has lots off food, Mister Creed. During lunch and at night: dey have to put buffet tables wid cheese, and shrimp, and fruit, and... cold desserts, and cakes, and meat... You have to have many food. And den you can use what isn't eaten in Sunday, in a small lunch to de family and friends more important, more proximate."

Creed finished his drink. "Basically, they spend all their money on the food an' then don't have nuthin' t'spend on the band."

Irbis shrugged and looked at the guests. Old and young danced noisily, with occasional fits of loud laughter making their way between the music. A few women were dancing together and some couples had included children into their midst, forming a three person round dance. Then the band started playing another Portuguese song, but this time people piled into a conga line that started slithering through guests and tables, the bride and groom laughing at its head.

Irbis smiled and muttered 'de train', chuckling softly when Creed showed his disgust for the awful musical taste the bunch of people had.

"No," and she glanced at him, "dis is a wedding like is supposed be."

The conga or train or whatever line came dangerously close to them and a few hands shot out to drag them in. Creed's frown was very disuassive and he wasn't bothered much, but Irbis hesitated and the line became stressed as a few people tried to hold its advance for her to jump in. Its march couldn't be held, though, and Irbis ended up not joining, raising her still filled glass as an excuse against other invitations.

"A proper weddin', huh?" Creed filled himself another glass. "I'd suggest ya found that guy, Agostinho, and got yer guitar for us t'leave. I ain't got no interest in such 'proper weddin's'."

Her eyes opened up, slightly alarmed. In the back, the conga line had disintegrated as the band started playing a lively Portuguese song. "We can't leave now, Mister Creed. We have to dance."

"Says who?"

"Is a wedding. Dey give you a party, and you have to... to show you like. We... or I, if you don't have interest. I have to say ao Senhor Agostinho dat de food was excellent, and dat de band is very nice and... and I have to dance a little. If I don't dance, is like... like I don't like."

Creed wasn't happy, but he was also too full to be aggravated. "That's a load o' bulshit. Nobody asked him to feed us."

"No, is true, but..." She looked at the floor dance and sighed. "You don't have to dance, Mister Creed, but I think dat I have. I just dance a music or two and den I ask about de guitar, OK?"

"This ain't no disco, girl," and he grinned at her. "If ya wanted t'dance, ya should've joined the conga line and called yer duty done at the end of it. Ya don't think I'm gonna sit here all afternoon waitin' fer another song ya can dance on yer own, do ya?"

"I dance alone." Creed frowned at the naturality of her shrug. "If someone want to dance wid me, dey see me dance alone and dey..."

"Ya here with _me_." The light growl surprised her and she blinked. "Ya don't dance with anyone but _me_. Got it?"

She eyed him seriously for a second. "OK. If someone want to dance wid me, I say 'no, thank you'. No problem."

Creed's growl deepened slightly. What kind of a moron goes out into a packed dance floor to dance to love songs alone? He finished his glass and got up, intent on getting the show over with. He didn't go as far as the crowd, though. The way they were all nearly bumping into one another, he'd end up tempted to clear some breathing space around him and it could get messy. Circling her waist with an arm, he started moving to the rhythm of Roy Orbison's Pretty Woman. Irbis, wearing ballet-flats, quickly got to the tip of her toes to move weightlessly under his lead.

"Thank you," she said in a low voice when a new song started. "I really didn't want to look bad dat I don't dance."

Creed was almost amused with the ridicule. "Ya'd look bad fer not dancin', but ya wouldn't look bad dancin' alone. That's smart, girl. Real smart."

"No," her voice was slightly breathless. "I mean, look bad like... hypocrite."

She had looked up and noticed his frown. "Like de people dat complain dat de streets are dirty, but den dey throw papers and packets of potatoes to de street. Or like de people dat want deir parents to help wid de clodes, and clean de house, and cook, but when de parents can't do it anymore, dey put dem in a home for old people and never visit again. If you want to receive, you have to give too. If you don't want to know if people give things to you or not, den you don't have to give nothing too. But you can't complain when you don't receive things."

"But they do. That's what people are like: they want everything, but don't wanna pay fer it."

Irbis's grin widened, more bitter than cheerful though. "Yes, dat's right. Dat's why I don't like very much people."

The band stopped for a break then, allowing an impromptu band of guests to get to the stage and start playing folk music. Soon, the dance floor was taken over by a big round of people, flailing hands around and stomping feet.

"De guests must be part off a group of dance folkloric," and she actually smiled happily at the tacky song and tackier dance. "My wedding was suppose have a group like dat, too."

Creed did a double take. "Ya was gonna get married?!"

"Ah, no. But de wedding was already decide." She lost the smile as she took a step back and leaned lightly on a table top, careful not to topple it. "My grandmoder... she died after de wedding off my broder. I had seventeen years, and she knew dat she had Alzheimer so... she talked wid de person dat has a big house for wedding parties in de country and did a contract. She wanted to pay my wedding party because she didn't have childs and I was like a daughter to her. So I decided how I wanted my wedding."

Creed grinned, mocking her. "Complete with a five course dinner and a two-men-band, huh?"

"Yes, exactly. And a carriage to take me to church and to de house where de lunch is. And de same place to de lunch in Sunday, wid a young cow or bull to play garraiada. And what my dress was like. Everything."

A yelp followed by laughter called their attention. Someone had fallen while swirling about in the round dance, but the woman was being helped up and the dance continued unchecked. Irbis sighed softly and took a few short steps until she was by Creed's side, while still looking at the dancers. She was so close, Creed could feel her body's warmth.

"Looks stupid to you, right?" Her voice was casually low, but it felt louder after the long silence.

"Damned stupid." He hadn't looked away from the dancers, his voice just as casual. "Ya really meant t'have that at yer weddin', huh?"

"Yes," he could hear her smile. "Silly but... has many good memories connected, sabe... not de dance: de people dat I danced wid and all de fun parties and... and everything."

Fortunately, the dance didn't hold out for much longer and the two-man band returned with a vengeance. A 'love's-all-around-us' kind of vengeance that kicked off with Stand by me. It was a pleasant interpretation and Creed slid an arm behind Irbis's waist to pull her into the dance. Instead of easing into the beat as he'd expected her to, though, Irbis hesitated, a conspicuous blush spreading through her embarrassed face.

Creed suppressed a grin. "What? Danced enough fer retribution already?"

"Uh... No, I... I don't dance... uh... slows." He allowed her to stop, his grin shining down at those uncomfortable brown eyes. "Isn't very much to dance in slow musics."

"Oh, I see." But neither did any movement to untangle the arms from the dancing embrace. "So ya refuse t'dance 'em... ain't that a problem with yer boyfriends?"

Irbis blinked and held her breath, probably wondering how to answer, then frowned playfully. "Boyfriends only like to dance slows because is an excuse to put de hands where dey shouldn't."

"Ain't that what slows are for?" Her blush flowed and ebbed, her heart beat picking up rhythm as the song died away.

"Exactly. Slows aren't to dance, are to... uh... to embrace de person you like."

The group started on the Platter's Only you, and Creed was pleased they hadn't jumped to a livelier melody. His hand, that had never left her back, presured her into a light sway and when he took a step to the side, she followed hesitantly. Hesitation was soon replaced with embarrassed willingness, though, and when Creed made her swirl, the hem of the summer dress rising to her thighs, she laughed briefly before falling back into his arms. Such a pity those old time songs were so short!

He pulled her closer to him, the heat of her skin burning through dress and shirt, and leaned until his lips touched her ear. He could have chuckled at the gasp that nearly stopped her heart. "Ya wanted t'dance; ya can't refuse whichever song I choose now."

Holding her hand securely, he stepped away and made her swirl one last time. Another song was already starting as Creed steadied her from the swirl. Her eyes gazed at him seriously, not embarrassed anymore, as she followed his lead unresistingly.

"I don't like games," she reminded him quietly.

"So I've heard." The trend of old timer slows continued with All I have to do is dream, and Irbis's hips moved confidently under his hand. "But it stops bein' a game when ya knows how t'kill it."

"And I know how to kill it?"

"Like a pro."

The smile pulled her mouth sideways, teasingly. "But I don't like to kill..."

"Then I suggests ya play along." He narrowed his eyes, his voice turning deeper almost accidentally. "I'm willin' t'bet ya can play this game like the best."

Irbis's eyes tried to pierce through him until the song was nearly over. "Games are dangerous... dey cause you hurt."

"And ya rather run away from the hurt, don't ya?" He let her slide away from his arms when the song was over. "Danced enough not t'look bad?"

Irbis swallowed and hugged herself, her shoulders strengthening and boosting her breasts. "I need to drink something... I bring you a glass."

Creed watched her drift away, searching for the bar. She was right: games are dangerous. But if anyone was going to end up hurt with that particular game, it wasn't him. The question was, if she tried to play it, would he let her get away when she got cold feet? A few tables away, she stopped a waiter and told him something that had the young man pointing at a group of guests and then heading for the bar. Better yet, if it came to the point where he wanted her to play the game, would he allow her to kill it? She didn't follow the waiter to the bar, preferring to approach the group of guests. He could see Mr. Agostinho step away from the bunch of folks to accompany her.

Pulling up a chair, the blond sat down. The chat between the girl and the man lingered until the arrival of the waiter, carrying a tray with two flutes filled with a golden liquid, then it came to a friendly end. Irbis picked up the glasses and made her way back to him while the bride's godfather stole away, presumably to get the promised guitar. He noticed how the girl hesitated a moment when she caught his deliberate stare, but then steadied herself and braved on. Thing was, the way she braved on was symptomatic of someone picking up a welcomed challenge. Even the light smile that didn't quite unfurl.

"Spumant. For you..."

"Don't ya mean sparkling wine?"

She took a sip, holding his gaze, then waited patiently for him to finish his longer sip. "I'm very happy today, sabe. And is your fault."

Creed frowned, and more deeply when she lifted a hand to keep him from interrupting her.

"I know you don't have no interest in my happiness or... or o que quer que seja. But my happiness today is still a consequence off you, não interessa dat you don't mean it. Or até don't want. But because off you, I know I'm not going to become a monster. And I'm going to get my guitar and den... den all is going to be right." Her eyes shone as she brought the glass up for a second sip. "Vai ficar tudo bem."

"Ya're crazy," but he could understand her relief. Nice kids don't really long to become psychopathic murderers, do they? They'd much rather be thankful to one than be one. "Or half-way drunk, with all the wine ya had at lunch."

Cheer and happiness drained from Irbis's face as if she'd seen a ghost, her lower lip actually trembling as a wave of fear spread through the room. Creed frowned, not understanding what could have caused the sudden change, and glanced quickly around. Had she seen someone that could pose some sort of danger to her? But there was no one behind him, absolutely no one, and nevertheless Irbis had already taken a deep breath and was now trying to make believe she was still as happy as she'd been a moment before. In the background, the band had stopped and was announcing a song dedicated to the bride, Matilda, from her loving husband Eric.

"One last dance to say good-bye?"

Her hands were shaking slightly as she sat the nearly full glass on the table, and her smile was so nervous it could turn into a wretched pout at any moment. Her eyes didn't wander about the room, though, which assured Creed that whatever had spooked her wasn't related to either the people or the place.

"Why not?"

The band was now starting the song the newly-found husband had chosen as a tribute to the love of his life: Rod Stewart's take on Tom Waits's 'Tom Traubert's Blues'. Unlike the other slow songs they'd danced earlier, Irbis didn't hesitate entering his embrace and actually leaned her head on his chest, her hair brushing his chin. The scent of fear was diminishing but was still there, subdued in the background.

 _"waltzing Matilda…_

 _waltzing Matilda..._

 _You'll go waltzing_

 _Matilda with me"_

"What am I?" Her voice was low, with a tinge of hopelessness to it, and she didn't lift her head off his chest.

"Huh?"

" _I'm an innocent victim"_

"You said I'm not a monster..." And her whole frame shuddered in his arms, nestling her body closer to his, her fingers clinging to him. "So... what am I?"

" _No one speaks English"_

"Ain't that obvious? Ya're an annoyin' lil' brat. An' pretty stupid, too."

 _"And my strength is soaking away_

 _To go…"_

"I'm serious, Mister Creed." She distanced herself slightly and looked up at his face. He had expected to see tears threatening to burst lose but there was no sign of them, either in her eyes or her voice, just plenty of hardening disillusion. "You were serious last night... I very much prefer when you are serious and just say what you think and don't interest if I like."

" _Now the dogs they are barking_

 _And the taxi cab's parking"_

Creed gazed into her eyes for a while. What had shaken all her happiness and certainty? The only thing he could connect to the change was his mention of craziness and half-drunkness. So it was either that that had caused the change, or something that had occurred to her out of the blue.

 _"I begged you to stab me_

 _You tore my shirt open_

 _And I'm down on my knees tonight"_

"Ya know what an alien is? Legally."

She blinked and frowned. Probably hadn't expected him to answer her seriously, he realised.

 _"You buried the dagger"_

"Uh... Eh teh? Extraterrester?"

"No!" And he shook his head at the ridiculousness of her answer. "I said legally, dumbass. An alien's someone who's in a foreign country. They can be legal – like tourists or somebody workin' abroad or somethin' – an' they can be illegal. That's what ya are... an illegal alien no matter where ya are in the planet. Ya're someone who's just never gonna fit in, never gonna belong nowhere. At least not the way ya probably wanted, anyway.

 _"Now I've lost my Saint Christopher"_

She nodded after a moment, imperceptibly, and then leaned her head against his chest again. He could feel the tension in her body, even if her feet followed his lead unaffected by whatever emotional turmoil was warring inside her.

 _"And the one-arm bandit knows_

 _And the maverick Chinaman_

 _With the cold-blooded smile_

 _And the girls down by the striptease shows go_

 _Waltzing Matilda..."_

"Is a nice song, neh?" Her voice was low and musky, and Creed wondered if she was aware of the game she was playing. A far more dangerous game too, because she was the one starting it and she better not expect him to kill it. Even if she wasn't aware of what she was doing.

 _"No I don't want your sympathy"_

"Stupid, 's more like it."

 _"That the streets ain't for dreaming now"_

"Why?"

"The groom dedicated the song t'the bride 'cause her name's Matilda and the song chorus is 'waltzing Matilda', right?"

Irbis nodded silently. The scent of fear had faded away completely by now and the hand she had left clinging to his arm had lost its fierceness.

 _"And the ghost that sells memories"_

"Well, first of all, this song's about a drunkard and, second, 'waltzin' Matilda' 's Aussie fer goin' off ta the outback with yer blanket. Matilda bein' the blanket. Some tribute ta the woman! But, hey, it's their weddin'. They can call themselves whatever they want."

Irbis frowned but smiled, genuinely amused. "Matilda means blanket?"

"It's Aussie... Australian. Ya know what the outback is?"

She shook her head, the clinging hand finally relaxing on his arm.

"It's thousands an' thousands o' miles o' nuthin' but deserted land, red earth and dried up bushes. And 'waltzin' Matilda' means ya pick up yer matilda, meanin' yer blanket, and ya go out fer a few days campin' in the wild."

Irbis bit her lower lip lightly.

 _"You'll go waltzing Matilda with me"_

"Maybe 'waltzing matilda' isn't romantic," she claimed softly, "but if you want someone to go 'waltzing matilda' wid you... dat is romantic."

Creed made her swirl and she awarded him a peaceful smile.

 _"She killed about a hundred_

 _And she follows wherever you may go"_

"Maybe, but the song's still 'bout a drunkard who's fallin' apart. Not the best thing fer a tribute t'yer wife."

She laughed. "Especially because de matilda in de song is a blanket."

Their eyes met for a moment and Irbis's smile started fading.

 _"And it's a battered old suitcase_

 _In a hotel some place_

 _And a wound that would never heal"_

Irbis looked away and leaned her head on his chest again, but without shuddering this time, just a light sigh.

 _"No prima-donnas, the perfume is on_

 _An old shirt that's stained with blood and whiskey_

 _And it's goodnight to the street-sweepers"_

"O Senhor Agostinho probably has de guitar already. I should go get it."

 _"And goodnight Matilda too"_

"Sounds like the best idea ya've had so far."

 _"Goodnight Matilda too"_

* * *

 _If you are enjoying the story, please consider writing a short review. Just let me know what you like the most and the least so that I can continue improving my writing._

 _Thank you._


	20. Playing Cat and Mouse

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **20\. Playing Cat and Mouse**

Irbis opened the oven and slid in the tray bearing frozen meat. Creed was having a shower and she would follow his example shortly, but first things first: dinner. They had spent Saturday night, Sunday and the best part of Monday zig-zagging around the country to avoid any possibility of being tracked. They had taken a plane under aliases and left midway at a stopover; they had bought train tickets which had then been given to some couple who had been on their way to buy their own tickets; they had driven stolen cars and bikes; they had booked a hotel room and left in the middle of the night. Not to mention she had been wearing a wig and sunglasses, whereas Creed had put on sunglasses while wearing baseball caps and hoodies. The only thing they hadn't done was walk through the woods, far from anyone's spying eyes.

By the time they had finally arrived in Wausau, driving a newly bought car to replace the van that had been left behind in Madison, Creed was cranky with tiredness. Not that she wasn't tired, the journey had been very tiresome, especially on top of everything she'd been through. But even if she had shared the man's paranoia, she hadn't shared it to the point of spending every moment awake and looking over the shoulder. That meant she had slept enough, between night naps and day naps, which he hadn't.

So it all boiled down to that simple thing: dinner. He'd want something hot and substantial after his shower and before turning in for a well-deserved night. And Irbis was determined to add comforting and soothing to the adjectives for describing the dish she was preparing. Fortunately it wouldn't take long. She had had the foresight to make several meals and then freeze them, so that she might have food ready to go at a moment's notice, in case of an emergency. To prevent any foul taste from the freezer, she placed the food inside three different boxes and then renewed her frozen stash regularly. She'd only used the strategy twice so far, and both times – comprising of a rich stew, one of pork another of beef – she'd been successful.

For this evening, she had chosen beef chuck, previously roasted in the oven and cut into thin slices, which were now thawing in the oven. There wasn't enough time to cook anything to go with it, but fortunately Creed wouldn't mind for as long as the beef was tasty. Nevertheless, she had already put some frozen home-baked bread defrosting alongside the meat and was now choosing an assortment of cheese, smoked meats and sausages, wine and beer to enliven the meal.

Upstairs, the shower came to an end. Irbis finished setting the table for one then hesitated. Would the man want to eat in the kitchen, the dining room or the living-room? She considered the alternatives but couldn't guess a preference so she jogged upstairs, to ask him. Once in front of his door Irbis hesitated a-new, wondering whether he would be annoyed at the question or not, and exhaled forcefully before knocking.

"What?" She had expected him to tell her to come in, not open the door himself with a crossed expression. But most of all, she hadn't expected to see him wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, his wet hair dropping water droplets all over his shoulders and chest, which then trickled teasingly down his light skin. "What?!"

Feeling the searing heat on her cheeks, she forced herself to see nothing but the man's golden eyes. "Uh... Where you want... uh... eat... uh... Kitchen?"

Holding her breath at the crossedly lifted eyebrow, she was certain her very eyes were blushing. Yet she persevered in trying to act as if she wasn't embarrassed at all.

"Ya gonna black out if ya keep holdin' yer breath like that," he said in an almost soft tone that hinted at some mischieve. "Dinner's ready?"

Irbis nodded, then shook her head. "Is in de... uh... de oven. Meat. And cheese, and bread, and... uh..."

Creed leaned a shoulder on the doorway and combed his hair back with a hand, slowly, flexing his chest muscles. Irbis's eyes were distracted and attracted by the movement, and the heat worsened – she could feel it spreading to her neck and scalp.

"Where do you want eat?" And she hoped her voice didn't sound as aggressive as she felt it. "Kitchen, dinning room, living room?"

She noticed how he narrowed his eyes and a mischievous grin twisted just the corner of his mouth. "I think I'll eat here. Bring it all up, will ya?"

She left without even saying OK or just nod. She simply turned her back to him and flew down the stairs. Safe in the kitchen, she took a few deep breaths to calm herself and splashed some cold water on her face. It occurred to her he might be doing it on purpose – playing games with her – but then she refused to believe it. He would have to know, to try and play games. No. He was simply provoking her because she blushed. That was all.

But the doubt was there. Irbis checked the meat and the bread. He could smell things no one else could, after all. She took out a tray and started arranging the plates. She'd take the meat on the plate, she decided, and put the cheese and the smoked ham on the same plate, separated by a napkin to avoid mixing any flavours. Then she looked at the wine and decided against it. She'd take a couple beers once the meat was ready. But what if he knew?

Irbis shook her head to dispel her fears. So what if he knew? She had always been very clear when it came to sex, surely he wouldn't expect her to change her mind just because she felt attracted to him. It was just a stupid attraction, anyway. No. Not even that! Because he might have a nice physique, and even a certain nobility and dignity and fluidity that was very eye catching, BUT! And she sternly reminded herself of that important but: she was not, nor had she ever been, attracted to blonds (although his hair colour wasn't that irritating), over-muscled (even if his entire frame was breath-taking) or cocky assholes (despite his alluringly naughty boyish grin). And the man managed to fall into the three categories. So it was all in the eyes. Which were cold, and she didn't like guys who looked at folks with that cold 'I'm king of the world' aloofness.

So there! A perfectly childish, and everything but dangerous, fleeting infatuation. And surely he hadn't noticed anything. Surely.

" _Like a pro."_

Her stomach contracted, fear involving her like a poisonous gas, at the memory of his voice, his intense gaze, his strong arms, and yet the fear was followed by a sense of daring that bred a giddying explosion of pain and pleasure.

" _But ya ain't no monster. Ya ain't like me. Got it?"_

His fingers pulling her hair, touching her scalp like electrical cables, his eyes icy and fiery just inches from her face. Fear and daring, pain and pleasure mingled in her blood like evil twins in a friendly spar and she had to pull a chair and sit down.

" _Ya wanted t'dance; ya can't refuse whichever song I choose now."_

The memory of his voice, his hot breath whispering at her ear hit her as if she were reliving it and a wave of pleasure washed up and down her spine, evil pain biting bitterly in its ebb. She had told him off but, God!, she'd been so happy that he had insisted on dancing those songs.

But no!

And her mind once more betrayed her, letting her feel the heat of his arms encircling her. Forget the arms! The heat of his chest against her face, his calmly, quietly, thumping heart, the relaxed swaying of his breathing, the rumbling of his voice vibrating though his torso, the... and she couldn't help wondering how different it would have been hadn't that darned shirt been in between them. Her back arched at the wave of pleasure that hit her like a tornado, pain and fear making her whole body flush, and tingle, and…

No! No, no, no, no, no!

Infatuation. Simple, basic, harmless infatuation. And he didn' know, hadn't the slightest idea. Couldn't.

"Minha Nossa Senhora!" He's a psychopathic, murdering monster, she begged the saint. She needed to get over it as fast as possible.

And she would.

Irbis took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. She needed to take the man's dinner up, anyway. And as much as he might harass her, she'd squash any and every provocation until he gave it up. She'd kill the game like a pro, his words; and Irbis ignored the tingle of excitement running up and down her spine at the challenge.

Like a pro, she got up and checked the meat. Darned! It was starting to get dry. She quickly poured some more gravy over it, then took it out and filled the plate. The bread had defrosted and was now hot and aromatic. Just as she liked. And again a wave of pleasure – no, not pleasure, she corrected herself, pride – a wave of pride washed over her at the fact that the dangerous, threatening man liked her cooking more than any other cooking. Not that he'd said it, but it was pretty obvious, the way he wolfed down anything she cooked, whether he was hungry or not.

Confident on her abilities to kill any games the man might try to start, Irbis picked up the tray and headed upstairs.

* * *

Sitting relaxedly on the bed wearing nothing but the silk sheets over his lower body, Creed waited patiently. The other night he'd spent with those two women – and great screamers they'd been – down in Utah had released most of the tension. However he was now very much aware that what he really wanted – screaming or no screaming – was Irbis. Willing and intense, which meant he couldn't force himself on her. But on the other hand, he knew – and probably better than she knew it herself – he knew she was attracted to him. But such a nice, young, fiery girl like her locked up and secluded away from home would sooner or later let her guard down and welcome his advances; she didn't look like she had the makings to become a chaste nun.

He wetted his lips at the memory of her gaze when she'd wrung the bird's neck, out in the desert. Outside the wind kept picking up and, remembering the weather transformation from menacingly overcast to steady snowfall, on the last hours of their trip, Creed was pretty confident that the blizzard conditions would last for most of the next day and probably the one after that too. He should try and check the meteo channel, but not tonight. Tonight he'd have a good nice sleep, after teasing the girl a bit.

Unfortunately, he had to wait quite some time to hear her footsteps. He noticed how she hesitated before knocking, the decided exhalation.

"S'about time ya got here!" He yelled in a purposefully bad mood before she managed to knock. "Get in already!"

Creed regretted the bad mood approach the moment she opened the door. It had helped her to forgo any embarrassment, instead of flustering her. Even the slight frown at seeing him in bed had felt more for practical reasons. And indeed the hesitation at coming forward was crowned by a searching gaze around the room.

"Where do you want de uh... ?" And she lifted the tray somewhat.

"Put it here," Creed patted the bed at his side and pulled himself up. "At least that smells good."

Irbis set it down obediently. "Do you need anything more?"

Yeah, he did. "Sit down."

She frowned and hesitated. "I said, sit down!"

She breathed out, slightly annoyed, but obeyed him. Her body wasn't turned to him at all, underlining her unwillingness to remain. He picked up a slice of meat, hot and sticky from the thick gravy, rolled it up and threw it inside his mouth. It had been frozen but it was still tender and he could hardly feel the stale taste typical of food kept in the freezer.

"Next time, take longer but bring me somethin' that's been freshly cooked."

The sudden disappointment on her face wasn't exactly what he wanted and he picked up another slice, rolled it up then leaned forward and offered it to her. The way she blinked at the meat then at him came closer to what he had had in mind.

"Take it." She held her breath and a light blush made its appearance on her cheeks. "Eat it!"

The impatient tone overcame her reserves, probably convicing her this wasn't any game he was playing on her, and she brought a reticent hand to the rolled up slice. Just before she could touch it, though, he took it back and ate it all himself. The embarrassed blush received the company of annoyedly clenched jaws and Creed had to to hold back a grin. While still chewing the meat, he rolled up a third slice and again offered it to her.

"Bite it," he said sternly through his munching, "and ya better not keep me waitin' like ya did last time. I ain't about ta spend the entire night with my arm outstretched fer yer ladyship t'decide t'obey."

The jaws lost their pressure immediately and she blinked, slightly confused. "Why?"

Creed swallowed up and thought quickly, sorting through several possible answers. "Thought ya said ya was gonna obey my every order without no questions."

"Yes, but..."

"Take a bite." And Creed pulled himself closer to her, raising a knee that stole fabric away from around his waist, raising his hand until it was level with her face.

The blushing was spreading provocatively as she finally unglued her gaze from his face and focused on the rolled up slice. Creed had to swallow as he saw her open her mouth gingerly and approach the meat. She hesitated, not being in a comfortable position, and a hand came up to steady his own, even if it needed no steadying, but then it repented and turned to a fist before receding hastily. She closed her lips to swallow down then opened them again to take the tip of the roll. Creed licked his lips hungrily.

"Take a bigger bite," and it was an effort to keep the muskiness off his voice. "Or ya won't be able t'taste nuthin'."

Irbis looked up at him, no frown on her forehead, then brought her hand up to his. The touch was like fire and he couldn't help the shudder that swayed the meat right and left. Irbis took such a bite he could fancy he felt her lips touch his fingers. He clenched his jaws as she stole away, chewing thoughtfully, leaving behind the strong impression of her hot, wet breath on his hand. Almost casually, he picked up another slice and stuffed his mouth. And another one. And yet another.

"I suppose is a bit dry..." She looked up at him, the blushing receding. "Do you want dat I do something else?"

Creed shook his head, still working on swallowing the mouthful. He picked the beer bottle and made the cap pop, which for some reason brought a light half-forgotten smile to her face.

"Bem... If you don't need nothing more, I go have a shower too."

He narrowed his eyes hungrily as he finally released the grin he'd been holding back. Her face reddened instantly even before he could get a word out, rumbling. "Need somebody ta rub yer back fer ya?"

"No, thank you." She got up daintly and Creed closed a fist to keep the hand from grabbing her wrist. "I can do it alone."

He watched her leave, closing the door behind her. He heard her hesitate for a moment and he grinned victoriously at the shuddered exhalation the woman let out before going on to her room. He heard the door open and close and there was silence for a moment, while she undressed, he guessed. Sitting cross-legged on his king-size bed, Creed listened for the slightest sound with his breathing nearly suspended. The clothes she'd been wearing being thrown into the hamper, the opening of the shower, the different tonalities of the running water against her body, the nearly inaudible sound of her hands vigorously rubbing her body with soap, her hand and elbow hitting the wall hard when she slipped, followed immediately by a light complaint. And again the water... hitting the bathtub from high above while she was rinsing the shampoo off her hair, then the sound being muffled when the head of the nozzle was brought against her torso... hitting the wall when she rubbed her arms... then handfuls of water falling heavily against the bathtub bottom as she continued rinsing her lower body... the sharp downpour of the shower nozzle losing intensity as it trailed down her legs... a final passage, in a quick upwards surge, and the water was turned off.

Creed took a deep breath and tried to relax when the sounds nearly muted themselves after Irbis had picked up the towel, but he couldn't. His body was on fire and he didn't even feel hungry enough to finish off the meat. Grumbling, he got up and headed for his bathroom. She was standing, drying herself, on the other side of the wall, and not even the cold water he dropped abruptly over himself cooled him down. Only when he heard the door open and close, and then heard her footsteps down the staircase did the cold shower start having a calming effect on his burning blood.

It was almost with a sigh that he returned to his bed, where the tray with the beer, the meat, the cheese and the bread awaited him. He still didn't feel particularly hungry, though, and simply flopped down on the wide bed. The beer he'd opened earlier was on the bedside table and he stretched an arm for it, drinking it thoughtfully.

He wouldn't be able to leave for at least a couple of days. Even after the blizzard was over, he would most probably be stuck until the roads were cleaned. That meant he'd have plenty of time to toy with the girl. Not that he expected her to give in so quickly, but he intended to enjoy himself while he played cat and mouse with her, even if it did mean plenty of cold showers. He picked up a slice of meat and ate it, licking the gravy off his fingers.

* * *

 _If you are enjoying the story, please consider writing a short review. Just let me know what you like the most and the least so that I can continue improving my writing._

 _Thank you._


	21. Practice

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **21\. Practice**

Creed woke up late in the morning but didn't get up immediately. The wind was blowing hard outside his window and he closed his eyes, enjoying the peace and quiet. There was something comforting about a full-blown blizzard: for as long as you had food and wood in abundance, you could just sit back and not worry about a thing in the world. And that was exactly what the man did. At least until his stomach started growling. Wondering if Irbis had prepared anything for him, he put on a pair of jeans and a shirt and headed downstairs.

The first thing he noticed was the aroma of food. Home-baked bread and cake. The second thing he noticed was the quiet. Peeking into the kitchen, he saw an assortment of ingredients, herbs, cheese, bottles of wine and pears, but no sign of Irbis. Hadn't it been for the raging storm outside, he'd guessed she was outside in the backyard. Then he noticed the thumping. He followed it to its source, entering the small room under the stairs and opening the hidden door to the basement. The thumping became an irregular punching. Frowning, Creed stole down the stairs into the wide room the original owner had created in the basement. He knew the girl had resumed training after he had spared her life in New York, but had never seen her do anything other than your run-of-the-mill exercises or practising her shooting and knife-throwing abilities. Now, he had the chance to watch her attack the punching bag. Her effort and determination impressed him, but her aimless blows harmed her muscles and tendons far more than the bag.

Hiding in the shadows, he saw the woman – wearing a body fitting T-shirt and cotton trousers that followed her curves perfectly all the way down to her knees – break off to recover her breathing. There was a note of frustration in the way she exhaled that had Creed grinning. When she got ready for another round, she blew out audibly and then held her breath securely as she attacked the bag with all her wasted might.

Creed evaded her vision field and approached silently. When she broke off for another pause, cursing lightly in Portuguese, he grabbed her left wrist. The petite woman twirled around as fast as a lightning, offering her slender neck to his other hand. He grinned at her wide eyes, blinking in surprise at him.

"Boo," he concluded flatly, a mischievous grin spreading through his face.

Irbis closed her eyes for a fleeting moment as she exhaled in near relief.

"Que susto," she breathed out inadvertently. Then she looked up at him and thoughtlessly dared a criticism, a slight frown crowning her unworried brown eyes. "You scare me, Mister Creed."

"Ya looked like ya needed some help," his hands relaxed their grip but didn't free her.

"I was trying to... uh... catch de best way off... off punch."

Creed grinned. "An' here I thought ya was tryin' t'hurt yerself. Yer fist ain't closed right, ya're hittin' the bag wi'the weakest part of yer fist, the wrist ain't aligned, yer elbows make it look like ya're tryin' t' fly, yer body ain't relaxed enough, yer punchin' with yer arms alone 'stead of using yer hips an' upper body, ya ain't usin' yer legs either, yer feet ain't givin' ya enough support... and ya ain't even tryin' t'aim, just throwin' yer fists wherever."

The man's large hand on her slender neck kept her from lowering her head, so she just lowered her eyes, disappointment thoroughly spread through her body. "So how do I...?"

Creed considered her sighed appeal for his help. If he were to correct her, she'd take forever to pick anything, if she managed to pick anything at all, and he'd be irritated for the rest of the day. But on the other hand, she was willingly throwing herself in his hands. He wasn't about to let it go to waste.

"Break free." She looked up again, a frown on her brow. "Escape me an' get t'the stairs."

He could have laughed at the unconvinced glance she shot towards the stairs. She held her breath lightly, probably wondering how to turn down the suggestion. He decided she might need to know the only alternative he was willing to give her. "Or we can practise some hand-to-hand fighting fer the rest o' the day, yer choice."

She swallowed as she glanced at the stairs again, the second option making the game seem more inviting. "Can I ask one thing?"

"Ya don't wanna delay this fer too long, girl, or ya'll have t'get t'the door, upstairs."

"Não, não! We start now, we start... é só que... I can't escape if... uh... if you... uh..."

Grinning brightly, he conceded. "If I don't go easy on ya? Sure... fer as long as ya do gimme yer best. Ya kick an' punch as hard as ya can, no holdin' back. Ya understand what I'm sayin'?"

She nodded as much as she could with his hand still around her neck, and her face assumed a mask of concentration. This was going to be fun.

As soon as Creed's grip intensified, she tried to pull back. He would've expected her to use her hands around his wrist for keeping herself in balance, but this approach also made sense: she was using all her weight backwards, where his fingers met and the grip was the weakest. What he didn't expect was the kick that came flying up.

* * *

Irbis hit the wall so hard, her vision got blurred and a wave of nausea washed over her. For a moment, she didn't even feel the throbbing pain on her neck. Trying to steady herself on her knees and hands, she shook her head and made an effort to recover awareness of her surroundings while getting her breathing under control. Then the thought that Creed must be about to put her through hell for kicking him like that shone like a red warning inside her mind.

"You say my best... Dat... Dat my best... my best eedea."

No blow or sound answered her, though, and she blinked up. The man was crouching some feet away from her, probably still on the same spot, his face too inexpressive for her to guess if he was angry or just annoyed or not even that. She swallowed.

"Ya went fer an unexpected move. That was good. And ya didn't hold back, which is the only reason I ain't kicking the shit outta ya." For some reason she didn't feel relieved. "Now I suggest ya get up an' deal wi' the consequences o' the move ya chose."

Which meant getting kicked and punched around. Why had she decided to work the punching bag this morning? Not feeling very hopeful, she tried a less violent way out of this game of catch. She had never even liked playing catch. Playing hide-and-seek, yes that was fun; now playing catch...

"Uh... I... When I kick a... an attacker like dat, den I... when he is uh... down." The man lifted an eyebrow very slightly and she swallowed. "I hit him very hard in de neck. Or kick his head like a ball. Very hard. All my streng."

His eyebrow fully lift by now, he cocked his head to one side. Irbis bit her lower lip, wondering if he would accept it. But no, he wouldn't; it was as lame as it could get.

"Interestin'. Ya know, I was down fer a moment there an' I didn't notice no one punchin' me or kickin' me. Curious, ain't it?"

Right, lame. Now what? No way would she be able to sprint past him and get to the stairs.

"Yeah, I know. Ya didn't strike me when ya had the chance 'cause I pushed ya away and ya was tryin' t'get yer head straight. Which means ya lost yer golden opportunity. If ya ever gotten t'think up a plan B, girl, now's the time fer actin' on it, 'cause the thug I'm playin' is in the mood t'show ya a world o' pain."

The idea struck as he got up and took a step towards her. "No, wait! If dis is outside, in de street... I have my bag, and I always have de gun in my bag! So I can just..."

She didn't continue, waiting for his reaction. The way he narrowed his eyes and again cocked his head made her hopeful. But then he grinned. It was such a brilliantly naughty grin it sent shivers up and down her spine, leaving her nearly breathless.

"Yer bag fell over there when I threw ya away."

Alright, he was playing the game. Not that it would do her much good if he just kept brushing her defensive ideas aside.

"My knife is wid me," she tried one last time.

The grin didn't change even as he took another step towards her and crouched. Such beautiful eyes the man had.

"Let's see that knife then."

'Focus!' She sternly told herself. She met his eyes head on. "I think I prefer to wait until you are very close and den hit you when you don't wait."

"Not bad thinkin'. It cuts down on yer chances o' defusin' the attack, but ya gain more chances o' livin' through it. I wanna see how ya intend t'pull yer pretty words off, though." His hand once more nuzzled around her neck, reawakening the shivers in her spine, but then he pushed her down hard against the ground. "Ya gonna regret that stunt a while back, ya lil' bitch."

She wiggled under the grip, heat coming to her faces over the insult. "Don't call me beach!"

"Now that's sure t'impress whoever's attackin' ya." There was a hint of annoyed sarcasm in his voice that hurt her and she quieted down. "Start gettin' used t'the fact ya gonna get insulted, and I mean really insulted, an'get over yerself. Ya wanna make a statement 'bout it, turn the tables on the ass name-callin' ya an' then giv'im a lesson in manners he won't ferget. Right now, all ya're doin' is wastin' yer time and I ain't seen that knife ya was talkin' 'bout yet."

Before she had time to react, though, he opened his legs and straddled her. Irbis could feel her blood flooding her body and making her tomato red. There was an urgent thought inside her head telling her to get her act together, but her body wasn't working at the moment. The feelings and emotions storming inside her didn't let it.

"Now, where were we... Oh, yeah: I'm gonna make ya regret that stunt o' yers, ya lil' bitch." He closed his hand leaving only the index out and a claw distended. "Did I ferget t'mention I got a blade o'my own?"

And without a moment to lose, it found the collar of her T-shirt and ripped it all the way down to the hem. Her mind was screaming now, but she still couldn't react. There were only those deep golden eyes, ice and fire going through her, and that grin, that muscle and bone melting mischievous grin, fading slowly into seriousness. And the heat searing her face, of course.

He leaned forward, resting his entire weight on his left hand, squarely on the floor just a few inches from her face. His index finger, claw still extended, played down her cheek and she couldn't even breathe by now. His face was exactly over hers, eyes on eyes, and she could feel tears burning hers.

"Talk," he said, his tone gentle, his voice rough. Irbis felt her body shivering but it was like being trapped in a stone sculpture, heavy and impossible to move. "Tell me what ya would do, if yer attacker got ya like this."

She swallowed, mesmerised. It was so clear inside her mind what it was that she had to do. "I... I move my hands and legs... so de attacker doesn't notice something out off normal when I go get de knife. Den I... I make certain he's looking to me... my face. And I cut his... his stomach."

"He's got a knife too, remember? He could easily slit yer throat open, or slash yer face, yer..." His eyes wondered down over her chest and she took a deep, shivering breath.

"I hold his knife." His eyes travelled back to hers. "Wid my oder hand... I cut my hand, but is OK."

His face lowered slightly towards hers, and all Irbis could do was see the intricacy of colour and lines within the irises of the man. "Show me."

But she couldn't. Her body didn't obey her. He hovered over her for what seemed an eternity then he straightened up abruptly, standing on his knees and towering over her. She was still transfixed, a sudden cold draft freezing her despite the searing heat still burning her face, and neck, and chest, and... The man's right hand grabbed her by the two ends of her T-shirt collar and pulled her up, then he sat down on his heels, her legs underneath him.

"Ya see, trainin' s'all very fine. Knowing what t'do inside yer head, s'all very fine too. The catch is that, no matter how good ya are at any o' those two things – and ya particularly stink at one o' them – ya're always gonna freeze the first time ya're face t'face with a real situation. An' the second time, too. An' the third, an' the fourth, and... And all the times it takes till they become normal. Then, only then, will ya be able ta reason clearly, and have yer body do exactly what ya want of it."

Irbis would have nodded her agreement, but her body was still playing dead. Even as the man got up and took a couple of steps away, his back to her, she still couldn't move.

"What's fer lunch? I'm so hungry I could eat a horse."

"Uh... Is..." She was aware he had turned to look at her and the tears of before burnt her eyes more deeply. "Uh... Meat... pork."

She realised suddenly he was crouching next to her and her head turned of its own account to meet his gaze. "Pork fried and after stewed wid clams," she finally managed.

"Later in the afternoon," he said in his most serious looking expression, "We gonna go through another practice like this. I'll pretend t'be some guy attackin' ya, and ya'll try an' get rid o' me."

She managed to nod this time, and then he put his big hands on her arms and pulled her up. "Fer someone who don't smell o' no fear," he grinned mockingly, "ya get pretty petrified. Go get my lunch fixed."

* * *

 _If you are enjoying the story, please consider writing a short review. Just let me know what you like the most and the least so that I can continue improving my writing._

 _Thank you._


	22. Blizzard

**Bonus chapter**

Portugal won the European Championship against France!

Both teams did a great match, giving their best but

after all the insults, all the attacks, all the despise,

with all of our faith, all of our emotion, all of our heart,

turning weakness into strength as Portuguese are known to do

PORTUGAL WON

WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!

Stuff the mean criticism

We've heard it before and we don't care because **we know who we are**

we are **the best!**

Plus, we aren't sore losers

we had enough soul in us to celebrate alongside Greece when we lost the Euro 2004 final to them in our own home

because the real victory is to give our best against adversity

and celebrate!

 **GO PORTUGAL!**

* * *

With no further ado, your bonus chapter

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **22\. Blizzard**

Creed sat down in the armchair facing the TV but didn't switch it on. The wind kept blowing hard and he didn't feel like filling the house with the noise of whatever might be on the TV. After all, there was enough noise coming from the kitchen as Irbis finished cleaning up. Feet on the coffee table, he closed his eyes and relaxed, satiated and pleased with his life. He was already used to Irbis's rich meals, but today she'd gone out and fixed a banquet fit for a king, even if she had been particularly quiet. Besides the pork with clams, she had whisked up appetizers, entries, some hot soup, a generously served full-bodied wine, fruit (if you could call pears boiled in red wine and sugar fruit) and a warm piece of cake with some sort of hypoccras wine for digestive. Creed wasn't lazily full; he was beyond lethargically filled to brim.

So, when Irbis tiptoed through the living room he didn't stop her. He had promised her a second round in the afternoon, but the afternoon wouldn't be over any time soon, and it might be fun if she got to let her guard down. He was slipping smoothly into a nice nap when he heard the guitar. It had a different sound, which was normal with its overgrown banjo shape; very light and gentle. It wasn't the best sound in the world, but it wasn't irritating. However, he couldn't hear it very clearly because of the blowing blizzard outside, the woman probably having locked herself up in her room. Creed considered going upstairs but decided against. The woman sounded as if she was simply trying it out. So he made himself more comfortable and let himself doze off.

The ring tone snapped him out of his pleasant nap. It was his mobile, he recognised immediately. He glanced annoyedly at the watch before getting up. 4pm. Stretching, he decided to check it out instead of leaving it for later. Upstairs, he could still hear Irbis's guitar. In the hallway, he unlocked the inner drawer of a casual cupboard and retrieved his mobile. Isabel finished the piece she'd been playing and paused. The text he had received was an automated message, warning him he had an email message and that he should check it. He didn't, obviously. That was simply the way a recurrent employer had devised to contact him. He chewed on his lip, annoyed. That meant he had to leave and contact the guy before the blizzard was over, in case someone got the idea he was in the area shut out by it.

Creed shook his head. Time to leave the fun and games and head for serious work, then. Suddenly Isabel resumed her playing, now accompanied of her voice, and he followed it. The melody poured forward in waves of shivering notes to accompany her voice, loud and clear, making it more intense by the contrast of the guitar's high tones and Isabel's low tones.

"Não queiras gostar de mim

Sem que eu te peça"

She sang slowly, pronouncing each word very clearly, as if she were talking bitterly and mournfully rather than singing. Even without knowing Portuguese, it wasn't difficult to trace parallels to the Spanish to understand most of the verses: "Don't think of liking me if I don't ask you to." Like? A Portuguese love song, was it?

"Of whom I like, not even to the walls will I confess; and I'll even bet that I like no one…" Only without much love in the mixture, it seemed. Was he getting the meaning of the lyrics right?

"Who knows if I've forgotten how much I want you,

Who knows if it's for you, whom I'm waiting for,

If I like you or not, that's my own business,

even if you think

that you'll convince me,

I'll tell you nothing."

She really did abandon herself to the song. Expressive. That's what he liked about her performance, since the melody itself didn't quite strike his fancy; her voice was vividly expressive. He almost believed she was the one hurting with the need to keep her feelings private, even if it meant keeping her lover in the dark.

"You can smile

You can lie,

You can cry too

Whom I like

Not even to the walls will I confess."

She took a deep breath and sighed so heavily that Creed could hear her over the closed room door and the random notes she was now plucking. She was done with the playing, Creed guessed, and was pleased to hear her mattress moan under the flopping of her body. Out of nowehere, a piano started playing the opening notes of _Waltzing Matilda_.

Creed opened the door without knocking and was awarded a glimpse of the woman's relaxed figure sprawled on the bed, eyes closed, before she sprang and sat up.

"Mister Creed," she gasped, blushing.

"Ya've switched to a CD, huh? Guess ya've had enough of listening t'yerself playin' an' singin', then." He made a show of glancing at his wrist watch. "Suppose anyone would, after two hours listenin' t'themselves."

She frowned as her cheeks turned a deeper shade of red. "You… you can hear me downstairs? I'm so sorry, Mister Creed, I locked de door and I thought I wasn't going to disturbate you…"

"Disturb," he corrected. "An' no need ta worry anyway, ya didn't disturb me."

But his steady gaze on him disturbed her. She brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and picked up the guitar. She seemed uncertain for a moment, her fingers petting the six rows of double strings very gently while Rod Stewart sang in the background.

"You... you were listening me play?"

She didn't look up at him but her whole body was suspended, waiting for his answer. Creed shrugged. "I got good hearin', ya should know that by now."

"No," she looked at him abruptly, serious, her eyes trying to see through him. "I mean, you were listening... taking attention."

Narrowing his eyes, he studied her. Could she be on to the game he was playing?

"I paid attention as I was comin' upstairs," he pretended to give in. "That was an odd song ya was goin' on about. Ya wrote it fer yerself?"

She paled suddenly, her face assuming a deadly no-nonsense mask.

"Dat is an old love song dat was always my favourite," she explained as she got up, very straight and prim, and headed for the closet. There was a slight sense of discrete nobility as she did so that Creed had never seen before. No, he had. And many times, too; everytime she stubbornnely told him 'no', actually. "If someone is going to sing a song, love song or no, den he should sing like he means every word and every note."

She placed the guitar inside then caught herself and quickly returned to the bed to get two small pieces of plastic. Movements swift and sure, head level, eyes guardedly stubborn. She felt in control and it showed. If he hadn't seen it before, it was because he was too busy being aggravated by the 'nos' that usually accompanied it. Her eyes met his as she swiftly took the fingerpicks to the closet. "To play de strings. Make pretend is nails."

"Ya're afraid I'm gonna break yer new toy, girl," he grinned.

She stopped before putting the pieces of plastic by the instrument's side, but it wasn't a hesitation. "No. I finished play it; I put it in his place. I should be afraid dat you break it?"

He didn't answer. The game was afoot, as they would say in olden times, but she was on to it.

"You are here because you are bored," she said softly as she closed the closet. "You want to... mm... play to tiefs and victims."

He couldn't stop the grin. "Thieves," he corrected her, enjoying the way she quietly repeated his correction, the tip of her tongue teasing him as she pronounced the 'th'. "But ya don't like no games, do ya?"

She gazed at him squarely, holding her breath for a moment. Then she sighed. "I like children games. Tief... Thiefs and victims, dat sounds like a children game. Do you come here because off anoder game? An... _adult_ game? Or maybe you want de two games."

His grin widened. "I knew ya was smarter than ya made it out t'be," he flattered her.

She humphed. In the background, Rod Stewart continued wailing.

"Waltzin' Matilda, huh," he grinned, not letting his eyes off her serious face. He was starting to get the impression she wouldn't let him toy with her again. At least not the way he had that morning.

"I am studying de music. I listen it until I know everything: letters, notes, everything. Den I can start play it in de piano." She breathed in. "I said I _don't_ like games."

Creed's grin faded away. There was more than one way to skin this particular cat, and he enjoyed the sight of her, whether it were her cheeks or her eyes that were ablaze. "That's the piece ya gonna learn fer me? Just fer _me_?"

"If you want dis song, Mister Creed," and her eyes shone intensely, her heart beat rising somewhat. "Den no one is never going to hear me sing it. Only you. But I _don't_. play. games."

He could tell by her face she didn't expect to win this particular fight. But there was no reason why she shouldn't, really; for as long as he got the final prize, he could live without the toying. He didn't enjoy beating about the bush for too long anyway, and if she was in a hurry to get into a stand-off...

"Then let's cut t'the chase."

* * *

For a moment, Irbis wasn't sure if she was being wise, forcing the man out into the open. But then he took a step forward and slid a hand behind her head and she forgot all wisdom. Her body felt like it was melting as he pulled her up, forcing her to get on the tip of her toes and leaning against his body for balance; and when his lips touched hers, his tongue snaked in to find hers, she closed her eyes tight and let everything go.

It was a kiss like she had never felt: her whole body was tingling and she couldn't think. When he broke it, she blinked her eyes open, her thoughts running so fast she couldn't grab any, and felt dizzy. Those beautiful golden eyes were so close she felt... she didn't know how she felt. It was just too much. He leaned towards her again and she suddenly realised her heart was about to burst in her chest and that she wasn't breathing. His lips brushed against hers and a stupid moan broke free from her throat. This time, her tongue reacted – sluggishly, moronically – and she was able to become aware of the man's strong, warm body next to her, his muscles under her hands.

When he broke the kiss again, one of his hands swallowed her wrist and pulled it to the side. He then pressed her hand against his side, his hand huge and omnipresent over hers, and made it slide farther away – towards his back, she managed to comprehend. She continued that same movement instinctively when he released her hand, until suddenly her face was touching his T-shirt covered chest. "Damned T-shirt," was her first thought, but then her brain forced itself on her and tried to knock some sense back into her.

"I don't want dis," her throat claimed almost of its own accord. The man's body felt so strong, and warm, and safe. She heard a rumble purr through his chest and she tried to reach it, get closer to that bumping on the other side of his rhythmic breathing, even though her brain was getting angry.

"Look at me," but she wouldn't have if he hadn't snaked his fingers under her chin and pulled it up. "Yer body thinks otherwise, girl. Ya _want_ this. Ya've been pratically beggin' fer this since Dallas."

It caught her unaware and sobered her faster than her mind could have. Dallas? _Dallas_?

"No," but her voice was hoarse and weak. He saw the grin pull his mouth sideways while the tip of his red tongue brushed teeth, and fangs and lips. Alluringly. And she grew alarmed.

"No!" She looked away, to the side, to gather her wits about her. What was she doing?

"Then how come ya ain't gettin' away from me, huh? How come ya ain't even _pretendin'_ t' resist?"

She felt sick as she met his eyes again. He was right: she wasn't resisting, she was practically throwing herself in his arms. No, literally. She remembered that her hands were still enjoying the feel of his body and took them away abruptly. Stupid! The man's heat was still burning dangerously on her palms and it hit her she should get away from him before he... So damned stupid! And she stepped back, but hit against the closet doors and had to turn away from his mocking grin. Why the hell did she keep finding his mocking grin alluring? It was a _mocking_ grin, for crying out loud!

She half-stumbled until she found the wall and then forced herself to get together, stop, think. She had gone through this before, damnit! She had decided not to let him mess her up again, like he had done that morning in their practice. She had sworn to herself!

"No," for once her voice sounded like her own, decided and stubborn, and she felt confident enough to turn back and face the man.

He had peeled off his T-shirt and she once more felt her body react. 'No,' she told herself, clenching her teeth and forcing every muscle in her to obey. 'He is a psychopath. You are not going to let him destroy what is left of your life. He'll play the nice guy, and then he'll enjoy crushing every ounce of free will you have. He'll make a puppet out of you. He'll make a mindless, miserable slave out of you. Hold your ground. He is not destroying you.'

Casually, he took a couple of steps to the side and sat on the bed, picking up the T-shirt he had probably thrown there and sending it farther off. 'He is giving you space, just to find a better way of trapping you,' her mind warned her.

"Mister Creed," and the formal title helped her to subdue her emotions a bit more, her heart beat almost normal again. "We have an agreement: no beating, and no sex."

"Oh?" The movement of his cocked eyebrow and head was sickeningly cute and she had to berate herself: how on Earth could she have fallen for the man? Was she a masochist? "If I remember correctly, ya said I couldn't beat ya unless ya asked fer it – by disobeyin' me or similar – and I couldn't entertain the though of sex with ya 'cause... well, 'cause ya didn't want it. But it has since become pretty clear ya want it, so..."

Her mind couldn't wrap itself around that reasoning. "No, I don't want to..."

He grinned again, mischievously, and flopped back on the bed, propping himself on his elbows. "Ya don't? Sure? Ya might wanna let yer body in on that, 'cause it sure thinks otherwise." A fang peeked boyishly as the grin grew wider, his eyes narrowing and taking her in from head to toe. "An' I'm more than willin' t'oblige."

"No," but what was the point of refusing the man? If he had decided to do it, no matter what she said, what... and if he was nice and gentle, she would give in. It made her sick that she couldn't control herself, that her body had more power over her than her own mind. So say what? "No, no, no."

She turned her back on him to escape his eyes glistening of amusement, his devilish grin, his... damn, his bare chest. She had seen tons of men with their chests bare at the beach, inclunding her boyfriends, but never had she felt the slightest attraction to them. Sure, they weren't as muscled, as strong looking, as... as... but was it normal that her hands were tickling with the need to feel it? It was like she was possessed or something!

She heard the mattress moan softly behind her. Was he getting up? Was he coming up to her? And then the lights went out. She gasped, surprised, almost afraid to understand why the man had switched them off. But then he grunted, annoyedly, still far from her.

"I knew the power would get cut sooner or later. With all this wind, t'was just a matter o' time till some tree fell over the electrical lines or something." The mattress complained sharply for a single moment. "The house is gonna get freezin' 'fore nightfall, without the heatin'. But there's no worry... I can think up a few ways o' keepin' ourselves nice an' warm."

He said it provocatively and Irbis closed her fists. "No. We have an agreement. No sex. You are my boss and I obey you in everything but not dis. I don't sleep wid my boss; I don't sleep wid you."

He didn't even think twice, and his voice vibrated casual and deep through the dark. "If that's the problem, then ya're fired."

She turned around but she couldn't glimpse where he might be, the darkness was too complete. "You can't..."

"Why not? Ya're fired, Irbis. From now on I ain't yer boss, no more. I suppose ya won't have t'obey me, either, but I will be free t'beat yer up, so don't disobey me too much. It's fer yer own good." How could he be so casual about it? "Oh, and ya'll have t'pay me fer crashin' my place, that's a given. In cash, preferably."

He was insane. But before she could say it what seemed like an explosion, complete with a thundering loud blast, rocked the house. Unable to see anything in the darkness, she heard the man's growled 'damn' and then a strong hand clamped over her shoulder.

"Ya ain't stayin' here on yer own. Ya'd probably just do somethin' stupid..." He said half to himself as he started pulling her along. But she tripped and nearly fell, making him hold her more securely and practically lift her off the gound. When he stopped and set her down, leaning her against the wall, he told her to stay put and disappeared.

Irbis tried to get her eyes used to the darkness and distinguish shapes around her. She knew she was in the corridor, but where had Creed gone to? And what could be happening? She was having difficulty to accept that something really had exploded. She couldn't smell any smoke or burning, after all. All she could feel was a cold air draft, while the sound of the wind outside seemed louder. She frowned when the light of a torch revealed she was right by the stairs, Creed inside his bedroom. The house was getting cold really fast, it occurred to her.

Creed didn't even look at her as he started going down the stairs, but she followed him without hesitation. The air became much colder, the wind much louder, as they approached the lower floor.

"Damnit," he growled again.

Irbis rushed to his side and saw that a pine tree had fallen and broken both shutters and windows, mangling the curtains in the process. Missing a heart beat, she thoughtlessly reached for Creed's hand.

"Hey, what..." but he had been caught by surprise and she effortlessly illuminated the corner where the piano, untouched by the pine tree, was starting to accumulate snow blown in through the broken window panes. "That's yer first worry? The _piano_?"

Irbis looked up, seeing his pupils shine like a cat's. Her hands were still gripping his wrist, but as pleasant as that touch felt, the spell she'd been under was broken and her tongue had no problem finding a quick answer.

"I clean and cook, Mister Creed, but dat's not fun. What I like is play de piano. Is dat dat is important to me."

He humphed as he shook her hands off his wrist and again placed a hand on her shoulder and pushed her towards the stairs. "And here I thought the guitar was what ya really wanted."

"Is not dat," she tumbled forward. "I love de guitar, but it only plays one type of music; de piano plays many types. Where we go?"

Creed was now opening the door to the small closet that hid the passage to the secret basement. "Ain't it obvious? We ain't spendin' the rest o' the blizzard in this giant freezer."

When they reached the bottom of the stairs he let her go. In the cold, grandly decorated room she saw the beam of the torch go over the marble fireplace – the mock fireplace, since it didn't have a real chimney, only an electric heater which was useless that day. The idea hit her suddenly: they needed warm clothes and blankets, if they were going to stay there for the rest of the day. Worst, the entire night, until the blizzard became subdued. Especially Creed, who was still naked from the waist up.

Without a word of warning, she turned and hurried up the stairs.

"Hey!"

The light of the torch was suddenly on the staircase and she was able to race through it without problems. Of course, what little light she'd had was gone by the time she reached the closet, but feeling her way with the hands, she found no obstacle until she tripped over the first step ot the stairs to the first floor.

"What the hell d'ya think ya're doin'?" Irbis turned to see Creed behind her.

"I go get clodes," she said, the wind that was sipping in chilling her to the bones. "Blankets. De basement is too cold. And food! After de clodes I get some food too. Please go down, Mister Creed, is too cold to you."

"Don't be a dimwit," he growled as he grabbed her arm and climbed the stairs with her. "A lil'bit o' cold ain't gonna do me no harm."

Nevertheless, he led her into his bedroom where he laid the torch to get a T-shirt and a flannel shirt. Irbis's eyes darted to his body but she quickly forced herself to look for some blankets instead.

"Ya got any candles about the house? Those batteries ain't gonna last forever."

"Yes, down in de... uh... despensa..."

* * *

 _Nem às paredes confesso_ , sung by Amália Rodrigues

* * *

 _If you are enjoying the story, please consider writing a short review. Just let me know what you like the most and the least so that I can continue improving my writing._

 _Thank you._


	23. Final examination

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

 **23\. Final examination**

Irbis finished lighting the candles on the fireplace, having previously taken a mirror off the wall and put it against the wall so the dim light might reflect on it and become more intense. Near the candles lay an assortment of bread, smoked meats, cheese, and some beer.

"Com'ere," Creed called her. He had piled a couple of carpets to insulate them from the cold floor next to the fireplace and was now sitting with a blanket over his shoulders. The blanket, though, had plenty of room for one more person and she hesitated. "I ain't gonna say that again, girl."

His voice was angry and she reminded herself that she had agreed to obey the man. That he wanted her in the blanket with him for purely practical motives: it'd be warmer. And yet she was scared... what if her body decided to go nuts on her again? But no, she had to keep herself under control. Breathing out with resolution, she walked into the man's embrace.

A bit of heat came up to her cheeks, but she strangled it. Remain cold, she insisted to herself. Freezing cold. But it wasn't an easy feat as the man placed a blanket over their legs, a strong arm enveloping her torso and pulling her closer to him as he brought together the two ends of the blanket in front of him; the enclosed space making his male scent more intense, his body heat more pronounced, his rhythmic breathing more comforting. Irbis closed her eyes and leaned on him – a tower of mighty protection, even if also a bomb of potential violence. A tingling wave of pleasure ran up her spine and she clenched her teeth.

"'Fraid of what I might do t'ya, huh?" She was unsure what undertone was that on his voice.

"No," she whispered, trying to follow the geometrical pattern of the blanket with her eyes. "Not you, Mister Creed."

"Victor."

His voice had been hard. He wasn't being nice, saying she could call him by his first name, he was making a demand, forcing her to become less formal with him. And she had agreed to obey him. Fortunately, he had never told her to do something she didn't want to, ever since August. He had even tested her in a couple of occasions, but she had had no particular interest in doing things differently from what he had demanded so she had had no problems complying. But this was different.

"I'm sorry," she tried beating about the bush, although certain that she had to give in. "I'm not obedient. Is not in my nature... uh... ... mm... ... Victor. Sabe, when I was a kid, a ceercoos was in my village. I wanted to go, but my moder said no. But I _wanted_. Dey had ponies and camels and a lion. I never had seen a lion, and I really, really wanted. So in night – I had seven years but I wasn't stoopid, I know dey can stop me in de day, but night everyone was sleeping. In night, I get up and I start walk to de ceercoos. It was two kilometrsh, but I went to de ceercoos. I was always very disobedient."

There was a moment of silence before the man asked, casually. "Were ya caught?"

"Yes," she chuckled. "I got lost when I was returning. To say de true, was a big luck dat I found de ceercoos. Mas enfim, a friend off my fader was in de police, and dey find me and take me home. My moder was so, so _hangry_. And everyone, too. Bem, everybody except my grandmoder Lilia; she laughed."

Irbis felt him nod, but he didn't say anything else and she relaxed. Her body wasn't going crazy, anyway; she just felt as if she could stay like that forever. But, naturally, it couldn't last forever. His hand, so heavy and comforting over her shoulder, came to life and his thumb started massaging her upper arm, quietly and distractedly. It felt beyond good, but not in a sexual way, the way his piercing eyes or his evilish grin made her feel. It simply made her feel warm, and safe, relaxed, comfortable, happy. No boyfriend she had had before had ever made her feel like this. Not even Miguel, the only one she had seriously liked (as in more than just like) and whom she had almost slept with a couple of times. She had loved being embraced by him, his arms lovingly around her; and yet that pleasure was nothing compared to Creed's resounding presence. And she felt fear once more worm its way into her heart.

"Why are ya afraid, then?"

"I'm afraid dat..." she hesitated, considering the wisdom of telling him her secret. That feeling of safety could change in a second, she knew, and she would never be able to stop him from doing something, not unless he wanted to stop. "I think... I..."

But she couldn't say the word, not even to herself. "I like you."

"And ya'd rather ya hated me?"

"No, I mean... I _like_ you. Quer dizer, _**like**_."

"Ya mean, ya think ya're fallin' fer me?"

There was a wave of relief that he didn't use the word either. But 'think' was not quite right. "Is not think, I _know_."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his body and straight into her heart. "Don't be stupid, girl; it don't suit ya. Ya got the hots fer me, that's all."

"No," and Irbis was happy that her voice sounded like her own again, decided and in control. She pulled slightly away from him, trying to see his eyes. "I know what I feel... Yes, I... I'm attracted... physically. But I like you in a way like I never liked no one. When Miguel was away – Miguel was my boyfriend – when he was away, I never felt like I needed him; I feel like dat wid you. I want to _see_ _**you**_. I want to... Raios!"

She looked away, telling herself she was going too far now. At the same time, Creed took his arm from her back and she felt cold and unprotected without it.

"Ain't ya a bit too old t'believe love an' sex go hand-in-hand, girl? Ya ain't got no nice fuzzy lil' feelin's fer me. I'm the man who beat ya up silly just a few months ago, remember? The man that was gonna kill ya. The monster that enjoys torturin' lil' kids an' helpless frails. The animal that hungers fer the kill an' the blood. Me! Ya don't _like_ me. Ya ain't about t'fall fer me. What ya do have is a serious hard-on. Figuratively speakin'."

Irbis blinked, not voicing her disagreement. Maybe it was better if he didn't think she was in lov... no, that she liked him. It was better that he didn't think she liked him. Like, only like.

"I've told ya before, ya think too much." His eyes shone in the dimness of the room, hard and serious, just as hard and serious as his deep voice. "Yer body knows full well what ya need, Irbis. Stop fightin' it; stop fightin' yer instinct. It ain't ever good t'ignore yer instinct, yer guts."

There was so much sense in his words. But that was what he wanted: to use common sense to better to break her will. To better to eat her all up.

"No," and she felt reassured by the sound of her own stubbornness, giving her absolute control over her life. "You will hurt me."

His short, rumbling laugh froze her inside out, heat searing her face and the rest of her body. "That's almost cute!" He croaked, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "'Fraid it can't be helped, ya bein' a lil' virgin an' all. But it'll only hurt a bit. I'll even be all nice an' gentle! An' I can assure you that, _in the end_ , ya'll be sore but beggin' fer more."

Heat turned to ice. "Virgin..."

"Yeah. Ya're a virgin, ain't ya? I can smell it on ya... I can nearly taste it."

Swallowing hard to keep her mind cool, Irbis shook her head. "No, I don't... I mean, you will... uh... break my heart." Damn, that sounded corny.

"Don't be ridiculous. I ain't got no interest in yer heart, girl. I've told ya: ya're too old t'mix sex an' love. I'm after sex, here; same way ya should. Ya try t'bring feelings inta this and, I assure ya, I won't have t'do nuthin' 'cause ya'll break yer own heart much faster an' more painfully than I ever could. It just ain't my type o' game."

She felt tears burning her eyes and she hated herself for that weakness. For letting that lack of interest in her heart hurt so much. But would she have preferred that he had said he was interested in her heart? And in breaking it himself?

"But I already..." she choked herself to silence, afraid she might say the wrong thing. "I don't want to like you, Mister Creed. Victor. I don't want... I don't want to, you know, _like_ a man, not you, not no one. No man. Womans always stay hurt, when it happens. I see it happen many times, and I don't want to pass my life hurting like dat. Because you love a man, and you just... you just suffer to de rest off your life. I don't want dat!"

There was another chuckle, but she didn't feel the rumbling of his chest, being farther off. "That's some serious commitment issue ya got there, girl."

She shook her head, tears still burning her eyes. Truth spilt forward without her consent. "Maybe... maybe I want... maybe. But I can't, Mister Creed. Victor. I can't... I... You stay close to me, and I start forget dat I can't like you. I have to say dat to me all de time, because... and I sleep wid you, _if_ I sleep wid you... I... You're right, I will break my heart myself. So I can't... please."

She wanted to look up at him, but didn't dare. She had just completely exposed herself and it was all she could do. Whatever he decided to do, now, it was all out of her hands. The blanket was starting to slide down her back, but she didn't care. At her side, she could tell that the man wasn't moving. Just sitting there. Waiting? She couldn't help herself. Swallowing, she stole a glance sideways but she couldn't get a clear picture of his face. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"You... you go veeolate me now?"

"Ya mean rape ya?" She nodded, once more resisting the temptation to look at him. His voice didn't sound angry, though. Hard, yes; but his voice was usually hard anyway. "Can't say I ain't tempted."

Tempted? What was that suppose to mean? "You rape de womans wid who you want to sleep and dat say no, right? I say no, so..."

"Yeah, I do. But ya're one o' those cases where rape just doesn't cut it. Most women scream an' fight, an' it just makes it all the sweeter. But then there's a handful that neither scream nor fight. The only thing fun wi' those is hurtin' 'em. Ya know, break'em up t'lil' pieces till they're beggin' fer me t'kill 'em." Irbis didn't feel surprised and shuddered. What was wrong with her that she wasn't appalled at the man's casual description of what he considered a pleasant rape and an annoying rape? Was it because she was in love with him? It made his faults less shocking? Worthy of forgiveness?

"Ya're one o' those tough cookies. If ya wasn't ready t'melt at every glance I send yer way," he placed a warm finger under her cold chin and made sure she could see his golden gaze. "Ya'd already be half broken. And I ain't sure if ya wouldn't hold out through the whole afternoon, maybe even the whole night, 'fore ya finally broke down an' begged me t'kill ya."

Now was the time to be afraid, she told herself; and yet her heart beat strong and calm. "I don't beg."

"Ya ain't much of a screamer, either. An' that makes rapin' ya loose half its appeal." A thumb traced her lower lip, sending shivers up and down her spine. This time, though, she didn't feel her muscles melting: they were screaming with the need to act, move; they tensed up for it and made her feel more resolute and in control than ever, even if she knew she had never had so little control over her life and death.

"Course I can still do it." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "But ya're a good housekeeper, a good cook, amusin', ya love t'see me happy as a king in his castle... and ya're dyin' t'have me inside yer pants, ain't ya?"

She swallowed hard but neither agreed nor disagreed.

"Nope. Ya're gonna be like Ruth and her girls." She frowned unwittingly. "Ruth owns a brothel – a house of high class prostitutes – and she owes me a few big favours, too. She and her girls are always more 'an happy t'see me an' keep me happy. And I can tell ya it ain't 'cause I can give 'em a world o' grief."

He grinned provocatively, a fang pressing his lower lip into a cute naughty dimple. "Ya're useful in more 'an one way, girl; and I ain't in the habit o' gettin' rid o' useful stuff unless they get me pissed. That's the only reason I'm givin' ya a chance t'come strollin' inta my bed of yer own volition. So I suggests ya straighten yer head an' get all those mixed up feelings out o' the way, 'cause next time I come to Wausau, ya'll end up either happy or hurtin' like hell."

She blinked, feeling cold inside. He had just laid out her future very clearly, and there didn't seem to be a way for her to escape it. Not even delay it. Feeling the cold creep onto her back, the blanket having slipped farther down, she tried to cover herself again and leaned over to the man's side, searching for his body heat.

"You fired me," she said, feeling a dark numbness spread inside herself, covering the ice running in her veins, but without really warming her up.

He let out a sharp laugh, as if she had just told him a joke.

"Yeah. I guess ya'll have t'pay a rent fer the bedroom I allow ya t'use, won't ya? 'Course, living in the house, ya'll still have t'keep it clean and all. An' since ya're gonna cook fer yerself, it follows ya'll cook fer me whenever I show up." Oh. Basically she retained the exact same functions, was paying instead of getting paid, and allowing the man sexual favours on top of it. Of course she wasn't expected to obey him anymore, but then he'd be more than free to beat her up, so she had better keep on obeying him.

Breathing calmly, she heard herself suggest suicide again: anything but bow down to his demands! But then there was another side that asked if it would really be so bad... she did like his presence, didn't she? She did long for him to show up and comment on her cooking, didn't she? She did enjoy the touch of his skin, his manly scent, his deep voice, his alluring eyes, his... She had liked his kiss just a while ago, hadn't she? Could she deny that she still felt her blood flowing faster at the thought of him kissing her again? If she said yes on the condition she was working for him again, he'd no doubt be happy to oblige, as he said.

Nevertheless, it sickened her to just lower her head and give in to him. Sometimes she wished she wasn't so stubborn.

"If I don't work to you," she said slowly, wondering if he would accept her demand or end up deciding she wasn't useful enough to put up with her hassle. "I... I find a job."

He laughed again, and she couldn't help berating herself at the pleasure of seeing him laugh, at enjoying his mirth. How stupid could it be? If this was being in love, then she'd rather be a bitter old hag!

"Sure, why not? Look fer a job all ya want, if ya think ya can find one that'll let ya take off fer days in a row every time I'm in town!" And it still felt good when his arm once more enveloped her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. She closed her eyes, fighting against the temptation of cuddling. "I can't say I mind yer independent ways, girl. It makes fer a more interestin' challenge that ya do try t'resist me. Just keep in mind that ya'll have t'yield... sooner than later, preferably. Ya play hard t'catch fer too long, and I won't exactly be in the mood t'care if ya end the night happy or cryin'."

That didn't leave much space for doubts, but she did prefer it that way. At least she knew exactly what he expected from her.

"I understand." But if she did, why was her head searching for ways around his rules. "If I don't make you angry, you don't hurt me."

"No," and he quickly forced her face towards his, serious and stern. But his hard hand was so warm, she wanted it to stay there a bit longer. "Ya keep me happy in _everything_ , and I'll let ya live yer life as independently as ya want. Just keep in mind that ya're _mine_ , an' that ya're first an' most important job is ta keep me happy in _**every**_ _thing_."

Despite the hand securely on her chin, Irbis felt her jaws clench of their own volition and she took a deep breath, to control the wave of rebellion that burnt through her veins. "No. 'Mine' is objects, things. I have my life, my choice, my... my freedom. I am your... uh... lover, I think is de word. I am your lover, not 'yours'."

He grinned lightly, like a naughty child that has just glimpsed an immediate opening for something he wanted, and she felt aggravated, at the same time as a stupid and unasked for wave of embarrassment no doubt coloured her cheeks. "Next time you come," she blurted suddenly, roughly. "Next time."

There was a dangerous glitter in his eyes, but her body reacted to it with the strength of a kick to the stomach. "Girl, ya got a glare that can make a lesser man fall t'his knees."

Aggravation and embarrassment mixed into shock that stung like a slap, and she pushed his hand off her face, unable to bear the man's gaze. Breathing hard, she swallowed at the light tug on her hair. "Oh, the lil' girl don't like bein' complimented, huh? Is that it? A nice, pretty lil' girl like ya don't like no flattery?"

"You say I can be independent, right?" she blew out of nowhere, looking back at him and trying her best to pretend she hadn't reacted so strongly to his nice, teasingly intense praise. If he had intended it as praise. He was grinning like a wolf about to eat Little Red Riding Hood when he nodded affirmatively.

"Então, I don't stay in your house. I have my house and... and..." Damn, she had to force herself to say it. "When you want... uh... you... uh... you come to my house, or you call me and I go to your house and... and... pronto."

The grin faded and he cocked an eyebrow. It suddenly occurred to her that it might be a good idea to not push his limits until they had... well, done it for the first time. No need to turn what was bound to be an awkward and perhaps a bit painful situation into just plain painful, right? After all, it had felt so good, every time he'd touched her so far; she didn't want that to change. However, she couldn't force herself to dilute her assertiveness with a more subdued 'please', or 'is dat ok', or similar.

But then he grinned, amused.

"Seems t'me, I'd be loosin' wi'that deal. Ya'll have t'throw somethin' in t'make it worth while."

He was so playing with her. Give him what? No, he had said she could be independent, and if she was bound to become his... lover was not the right name for it, if it was only sex. But that didn't matter right now. She was going to have her own life, away from his. He might drop in every now and then, but she was going to have her own independent life.

"Um adiantamento," she said. "I don't know in English... when you pay a percentage to promise dat you are going to pay de rest later?"

"An advance on sex?" He snickered. "That's a new one."

Irbis wasn't about to let him choose something else, though, and she quickly pushed away blankets to swiftly straddle the man's legs. He'd had his knees pulled up, but he grinningly lowered them for her. There was amusement shining in his gorgeous golden eyes and her strength nearly failed her.

'You don't love him,' she told herself. "It's only sex. Just that. If you could make out with Miguel and with Carlos and with Pedro, then you can make out with him without any problems. It's just about sex. Just..."

"Clodes stay like dey are," she set down the rules. "It can touch everywhere, but only on top off de clodes; no hands inside de clodes. OK?"

His hands found her waist and she bit down a gasp, swallowing hard. No one's touch had ever felt like that before. Forcing herself to maintain her cool, she put her hands over his shoulders and felt around how big and strong they were before leaning over for a kiss. As she did so, she remembered Pedro, her first boyfriend, and the nervousness as she had kissed him the first few times. This wasn't the same nervousness, though, even if in both situations there was a voice asking if she was doing the right thing; then, she hadn't had half her body burning of expectation. Then her lips hadn't been tingling with the anticipation, ablaze with pleasure as they grazed against his. It was all a novelty that reinforced the awkwardness of what she was doing, and she couldn't help but retreating slightly after that first tantalising touch, bending her head a bit more for better access and once more hesitating just before reaching his lips, only to meet them, kiss them lightly and again retreat.

"Ya wanna keep this as an advance, I suggests ya get down t'business an' keep the teasin' to a minimum, girl." Irbis jumped back and could clearly see he wasn't grinning as he said it, even having a slight frown.

"Sorry, I... uh..."

Jesus, the man was probably thinking she'd never made out in her life. A bit longer and he'd think she'd never even kissed: what other reason would he think of for her hesitation? But on the other had, he could just take the matter in his own hands and take the initiative, the way he had done when he'd gone up to her bedroom. She nervously pulled her hair back and nodded a 'ready, go' to herself. Then she let her hands slide to the back of his neck and toyed with a few strands of the man's short hair.

It was now or never. Heart pounding in her chest, she looked him straight in the eye and froze. God, she was acting like a 12 year old! Had she forgotten how to kiss in the last two years? She bit her lower lip. No, but maybe she had never learnt how to kiss properly. That was an embarrassing thought, but it wasn't her fault if the guys she had kissed had never done their job the way Creed had. And yet, Creed would certainly end up commenting on her kissing skills and she didn't want him laughing at her when she was taking the first step. After all, he might think that he was overwhelming her... hmm... kissing skills? when he kissed her; but if it was she starting the kiss, then it could only be incompetence. Maybe that was a bit too strong, but being branded as inexperient didn't sit any better with her ego.

Creed breathed out impatiently but said nothing. He was still frowning, and Irbis decided to just make a move and avoid the problem. Forcing her eyes away from his, she focused on his neck and kissed it lightly. But then she remembered that he had said she was teasing when she had kissed his lips lightly and kissed his neck more fully. On an impulse that her boyfriends had never truly enjoyed, she nibbled him; her teeth pinching him lightly. His scent was inebriating and she unwittingly pulled her body closer to his, as she continued exploring, coming up to his ear lobe and once more biting on it and enjoying its meaty feel.

"Whatch'ya doin'?"

The tone of boredom hit her harder than anything she had ever been told and she tried to unstradle him in an automatic reaction, seething inside. But he still had his hands around her waist, so he didn't have any trouble aborting her attempt to get away and sitting her back on his lap. His eyes didn't have any power over her this time, if anything they further aggravated her wounded pride.

"Obviamente, I'm not doing anything you like."

He grinned at her. "But ya are now. Ya need t'get some more o' that spirit inta yer kissin', girl." Still aggravated, she felt her chin pout and quickly looked away from him, to stop it from becoming evident to the man. But it was stupid, since he had obviously seen it.

"All my boyfriends like it," she said in a childish attempt both to assert her experience and to put the blame on him, rather than her.

"Ya ain't playin' with boys, now," his voice sounded a bit annoyed and she glanced at him, aggravation giving way to dismay. "Maybe I ought t'drop ya on Ruth's lap, have her stretch yer horizons a bit. Explain t'ya what real men are after."

That cut far more deeply than she had ever thought possible, and she once more looked away, this time trying to send back the tears that were burning her eyes. His hands let go of her waist, but she didn't move. Not even when he picked one of her hands did she move a single muscle in her body. Only when he kissed her palm, sending shivers powerful enough to make her gasp and arch her back, did she return her attention to him.

"That was light an' lame. Nice if ya're teasin'..." he narrowed his eyes for a moment before continuing. "Provokin'. But ya can't keep on that note fer long or ya're gonna lose my interest in no time. And if ya gonna go inta nibblin'..."

He grabbed her hand securely and bit down, his fangs actually breaking skin. Irbis blinked, gasping at the fact that it hadn't hurt. That is, it had sent a jolt of pain, but... it hadn't really hurt. He licked his lips, his intense gaze once more eliciting a knee-jerk reaction from her body.

"I suggests ya do it right."

Irbis felt her throat dry and swallowed hard. "Kiss me," she said breathlessly. "I... No one ever kissed me like you and I... I don't..."

He pulled her closer to him again and she melted into his arms when his fingers mingled through her hair, pulling it taut and making her whole skin crawl with electric pleasure.

"Ya have better be a fast learner," he whispered in her ear.

* * *

 **The End**

...

Well, no, not really.

If you you're enjoying and you're curious about what is going to happen next, follow Irbis's attempt to remain independent in the next installment, _Taking the Tiger by the Fangs_. It will involve X-Men (though not many) and Jubilee will show up quite a few times before Creed finally decides to collect what is his.

* * *

 _If you read till the end, please leave a review mentioning what you liked and disliked the most. Your feedback, even if only one sentence long, will help me to keep improving my writing skills.  
_

 _Thank you._


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